Sea of Silver Light

  Fifteen seconds after she had opened the message, she was on the central database, trying to find out Kell Herlihy's home number.

  When she finally made the call the screen came up dark. She could hear two or three kids arguing loudly in the background, plus a loud play-by-play of what sounded like Aussie Rules. "Hello?" a woman said.

  "Kell? It's Calliope Skouros. Sorry to bother you. I just got your message."

  A moment later the image flicked on. Herlihy from Records looked like she was having the married-with-kids version of Calliope's Saturday morning, although Calliope couldn't help noticing with some chagrin that the one with kids had at least managed to get dressed.

  "Yes?" Herlihy looked a little dazed. Watching the three girls in the background, who appeared to be trying to dress a cat in baby clothes, Calliope refined her idea of the advantages of company.

  "I'm really, really sorry, Kell, but I just had to follow up. You said you got something about John Wulgaru?"

  "C'mon, Skouros, it's the weekend. Don't you ever do anything but work? Besides, I thought Merapanui was closed."

  "Not by my choice. Just tell me what you have."

  Kell Herlihy made a disgusted noise. "A headache. Christ, what was it? It wasn't John Wulgaru, anyway—it was just 'Wulgaru.' An inquiry. I had that automatic monitoring thing set up for you." She frowned, then turned away for a moment to rescue the cat and send her daughters out of the room, who went squealing in tripartite protest. "If you ever miss the joys of being a breeder, feel free to do some babysitting for me."

  Calliope forced a laugh. "Tempting, Kell. Look, what do you mean, 'just Wulgaru'?"

  "Just that. It was a word search. Someone trying to find out what it meant. I thought you'd want to know, since that was about the only active hit we ever got since I set up the monitor."

  "A word search?" Calliope's excitement had cooled just a little. "Where was it from?"

  "Some university, somewhere weird. Helsinki, I think. That's in Finland, right?"

  "Yeah." As quickly as it had blown up, the storm of excitement faded. "Just someone from a university in Finland doing a search. Shit."

  "I didn't think it was much, but if you want to do a follow-up, the trackback information is attached to the original message."

  "No. Thanks anyway, Kell. As you pointed out, the case is closed. Not much use in bothering some graduate student in Finland." She reached out to close the connection.

  "Yeah, probably not, if that's where it's from."

  Calliope paused. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean if that's really where it's from." Herlihy looked away, distracted by some dire sound from the other room that Calliope couldn't hear.

  "But you said it was from Finland. A university."

  Herlihy stared at her for a moment, impressed by Calliope's naivete. "That's where it's supposed to be from. But people use universities all the time to screen stuff. Easy to hack into, lots of nodes to confuse things, sloppy accounting procedures because of all the students sharing time—you know."

  "I didn't know. Does that mean this search could . . . could be from somewhere else entirely?"

  "Yeah." Herlihy shrugged. "Or it could be just what it looks like."

  "Can you find out for me?"

  "Oh, God. If I can find some time, Monday or Tuesday. . . ." She looked doubtful. "I can try, Calliope. But I'm really, really busy right now."

  She had to ask. "How about this weekend?"

  "What?" Kell Herlihy weary amusement sharpened into something like real anger. "Are you joking? You are, aren't you? Tell me you are. I have three kids rioting here, my lump of a husband's going to take all day just to wash the car, and you want to know if I can drop everything and track down some. . . !"

  "Okay, okay! Bad idea. I'm sorry, Kell."

  "I mean, come on! Just because you're single and you don't have anything to do on weekends. . . ."

  "Sorry." She thanked the woman from records several times, in a hurry now to get off the phone. "I'm an idiot. You're right."

  When the call was over she sat staring at the wallscreen. The news was showing some in-depth report on a tottering Asian gear empire and the apparent mortal illness of its mega-rich owner. The woman's face, as full of hard lines and surgically-smooth planes as an Easter Island statue, was horrifyingly shallow and empty, even in a piece of publicity file footage obviously meant to flatter.

  That's what happens to people who don't get a life, Calliope thought. They die on the inside, but nobody knows it for a long time.

  The odd thought lingered, confusing her. But I can't just let this go. Not without checking this last bit, whatever it is. Sure, it's probably meaningless. . . .

  . . . But what if it isn't? And how can you ever know unless you try?

  Stan was sitting on the couch between his two nephews, of whom Calliope could see only half of each, one long skinny leg and one bare foot. From the sound of it, she was sharing the Chan wallscreen with the same sporting event that Kell Herlihy's husband-lump had been watching.

  "You really have too much spare time, Skouros," Stan said. "It's Saturday."

  "Why does everybody feel so free to talk about my personal life?"

  The Chan eyebrow crept up. "Who was it who spent most of the last week or so keeping me up to the minute on the Wild, Wonderful World of Waitresses? Without me asking once, I might add."

  "All right. I'm a little sensitive today. So sue me." She was glad she'd at least shed the dressing gown for actual I-have-a-life clothes. "Better, why don't you humor me? You must know someone who can help with this."

  "On a weekend? It's a closed case, Skouros. Finito. Kaput. If you're going to flog a dead horse, why don't you at least let the poor bugger rest in peace until Monday?"

  "Because I want to know. Monday everything will start over again, all the usual shit, and poor little Polly Merapanui will get farther and farther away." She tried another tack. "Not to mention that on Monday I'd be using office time for what you so accurately point out is a closed case. Right now, I'm only wasting my own."

  "And mine." But Stan shut his mouth for a moment, thinking. "Honestly, I can't come up with anyone, not that I could reach on a weekend." One of his nephews said something Calliope couldn't hear. "You're joking, right?" Stan asked.

  "I'm not!" Calliope said, aggrieved.

  "No, I'm talking to Kendrick. He said he has a friend who could help you."

  "A friend . . . like, someone his age?"

  "Yeah. I don't think you can afford to quibble, Skouros." Stan grinned. "Not if you're looking for someone who'll work weekend hours."

  Calliope sank a little in her chair. "Shit. Okay, put Kendrick on."

  Ten minutes seemed to pass between the time his older sister left to find him and the moment when Kendrick's friend appeared on Calliope's wallscreen. The boy, barely a teenager, coupled a small frame and dark, round face with an immense head of curly black hair, artificially frosted with white so that he looked like some kind of mutant dandelion.

  "You the police lady?" Kendrick had already called to explain, it seemed.

  "Yes, my name is Detective Skouros. And you're Gerry Two Iron, right?"

  "Seen."

  She paused, trying to remember how to deal with a teenager who was not accused of any crimes. It was not an area in which she had much experience. "So . . . hey, Two Iron is a really unusual name. What tribe is it from?"

  He was amused. "Golf."

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "My dad's the club pro at Trial Bay, up north. That's what everyone calls him, so the kids at school there called me that too. Our real name's Baker."

  "Ah." What was that you said about yourself earlier, Skouros? Was "idiot" the word? "Uh, did Kendrick tell you what I need?"

  He nodded his head. "You want to find out where someone's request comes from—whether it's real or, like, duppy."

  "Exactly. I'm sending you the information I have—the person who got it for me says all the trackback
is included."

  Gerry Two Iron was already scrutinizing the bottom of his screen. "Worry not. Looks easy."

  "Are you sure . . . are you sure this is all right? Your parents won't mind? Do they want to talk to me or anything?"

  "Nah. Mom's in Penrith with her boyfriend this weekend anyway. But I did all my homework last night, so I'd just be in No Face Five or Middle Country this afternoon. Weather locks today—I have asthma, seen? If I find this out for you, can I be, like, some kind of official police auxiliary or something?"

  "I . . . I don't know. We'll see."

  "Chizz. I'll call you back when I get it. Flyin'." The picture vanished, leaving Calliope with the feeling she had been processed through some kind of machine expressly designed to make her feel old and slow.

  Even the service elevators didn't go above the forty-fifth floor.

  You can't get there from here, Olga thought. Who said that, anyway? It was a joke, the name of an old show, something. Yes, a joke. From a time when things were funny. She took a deep breath to slow her speeding heart, then keyed the floor number.

  When the elevator stopped and swooshed open on what the elevator readout called "45-building security," Olga Pirofsky half-expected to find herself dumped into some kind of airlock, stabbed by bright white beams like a police interrogation from an old netflick. She was not prepared for the small grotto outside the elevator door, the soft splashes of light on the dark walls, the quiet fountain and empty desk with its vase of drooping gardenias.

  Olga stopped briefly to examine the desk, its glossy black top currently screening random scenes of nature. Was this the kind of thing Sellars would have wanted her to find for him, a screen terminal on the security level? Not that it mattered anymore—Sellars wasn't talking to her, and even if the desk were the portal to all J Corporation's secrets, she didn't have the first idea of how to go about discovering them.

  Suddenly mindful that there must be cameras all around her and that she no longer had a secret ally hiding her from surveillance, she took a rag from her coveralls and gave the desk a quick dusting, then continued on to the door set in the wall to one side of the work area. She felt sure there must be an elevator somewhere on this level that would take her up to Jongleur's private penthouse—the information she had seen suggested there was room for at least half a dozen more floors above this security level. She held her breath as she lifted her badge to the reader, half-expecting to be blasted off her feet by some kind of alarm. Instead, the door slid open, revealing the room beyond. When she saw what was there she felt sick.

  The room was large, perhaps fifty meters on each side. The entire perimeter was empty—nothing but carpet. In the middle, taking up almost three quarters of the space, stood a huge cube made of floor-to-ceiling plexiglass so thick that she had no doubt it was bombproof and bulletproof. Inside the plastic cage was an entire office—not a showy garden spot like the reception area, but a working office with desks and machinery and a long bank of wall-screen monitors. The lights were low and streams of data played right on the plexiglass walls, further obscuring her view of the interior. Hologram structural models of the building rotated above two of the desks; at the moment, nothing else seemed to be moving except the neon reflections flicking along the transparent walls. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she saw that half-a-dozen muscular men in shirtsleeves were scattered around the security office like exhibits in a zoo, all staring at her.

  I can't breathe, Olga realized. She wanted only to run back through the reception area and throw herself into the elevator. I'm caught!

  One of the men stood up and beckoned to her. She could not make her legs move. He frowned in irritation and his amplified voice boomed all around her. "Step forward."

  She forced herself to shuffle toward a heavy plexiglass door built into the transparent wall. Beyond the security men, near the back of the plastic tank, a single wide rectangular shaft of polished black fibramic stretched up to the ceiling. A featureless door was set in the nearest side. The elevator to the top floors, she realized, but without pleasure or even much interest. It might as well have been in another country.

  "Give me your badge," the man said. He was probably half Olga's age, head shaved everywhere except in two stripes above his ears. He spoke mildly, but there was something frighteningly cold in his eyes, and she could not help staring at the large gun he wore in a holster tucked under his arm. "Your badge," he repeated, his voice harsher.

  "Sorry, sorry." She fumbled it off her coveralls and dropped it into a trough that opened up in the door. Her hands were shaking so badly she felt sure they would execute her on that basis alone.

  "What are you doing here?" The man held her badge next to a small box. "You're not cleared for this floor."

  Olga could feel the man's suspicion deepening with every second that passed. His companions were talking among themselves—one was even laughing and gesturing, perhaps telling a funny story—but there was a watchfulness even to their inattention. "I look for . . . for. . . ." She exaggerated her accent, hoping to seem less of a threat, but it didn't really matter. Her brain had frozen up. She couldn't remember the name. She had been off Sellars' leash less than an hour and already she had spoiled everything.

  I don't want to die—not like this, not for such a stupid mistake. I don't want these men to kill me and dump me m the wildlife preserve somewhere, those water flowers growing all over me like on one of those abandoned boats. . . .

  "Jerome!" she said, and wondered if it would do any good. "I look for Jerome."

  "Jerome? Who the hell is Jerome?"

  "He is custodian." She did her best to sound like a hopelessly stupid peasant, one who would be of no interest whatsoever to any self-respecting Cossack. "He is . . . friend of me?"

  The security man looked back to one of his companions, who was telling him something she could not make out.

  "Oh, that's Jerome?" said the man who had been talking to her, and laughed. "That guy, huh?" He turned back to Olga. "And why would you think he would be up here, Ms. Cho. . . ." He squinted at the monitor. "Ms. Chotilo. Why are you looking for him here? He works on the lower floors."

  "Oh, I don't find him there," she said, hoping her fear seemed a reasonable part of her character and situation. "I think, maybe you see him on your cameras, you tell me."

  The young security officer looked at her for a long, hard second, then his face grew a bit milder. "You thought that, did you?" He said something too fast to register over his shoulder to his coworkers, who laughed. "Well, I'll just go see. Is Jerome your boyfriend?"

  Olga tried to look embarrassed. "He is . . . he is a friend, only. We eat lunch together, yes? Sometimes?"

  The man wandered over to one of the monitors, then ambled back. "I just saw him coming out of one of the restrooms on Level A. If you take the elevator back down right now, you should catch up with him." His smile turned cool. "One more thing. You should be pretty careful about wandering around this building. The bosses get real nervous when people aren't where they're supposed to be. Understand?"

  She nodded, backing toward the outer office. "Thank you!" Her gratitude was not feigned.

  In the elevator, Olga squeezed her hands under her arms to stop the trembling. She was angry at herself. What had she thought—that it would be easy? She was very, very lucky she was not in a cell right now.

  But what does it matter? There is no way at all to get past those people. I have failed. I've lost the children forever.

  She wished the elevator would just continue down through the bottom of the building and into the muddy delta earth, burying her in the dark quiet.

  Time, Ramsey thought. We're running out of time here. What have we got left? Less than forty-eight hours until the weekend is over and someone notices Olga isn't with her shift when they come back on—not to mention the fact that the building will be swarming with employees again. . . .

  "Damn!" He sat and stared at his pad, feeling hopeless. Sellars and the boy Cho-Cho were un
conscious, maybe dying in the next room, and Catur Ramsey had inherited sole responsibility for the safety of Olga Pirofsky . . . but he couldn't find her telephone number.

  "We can't just be . . . cut off!" He turned imploringly to Sorensen. "We must still be connected to her."

  "Didn't Sellars tell you what to do?" Major Sorensen peered at the readout on Ramsey's pad with the expression of a shade-tree mechanic about to admit he never did know what a ring valve was in the first place.

  "He barely told me anything. He said, I don't know, that the system was collapsing or something. That he'd call me right back. But he never did." Ramsey put his head in his hands. He hadn't done anything more strenuous in the last four hours than help carry the birdlike, comatose form of Sellars, but he had never felt more exhausted in his life. "He's got the connection to Olga channeled through some weird merry-go-round of repeaters—he told me he did it for security. But I can't find it! I just don't know anything about this stuff. You must have someone back at your military base who can fix this for you, Sorensen."

  From the expression on his face, Michael Sorensen was not having any better a day than Ramsey was. "Haven't you been paying attention? We're goddamn fugitives right now, or might as well be—we can't risk acting any other way. And we don't know how widespread Yacoubian's little private network is inside the base. I know one old boy in my own office I don't trust at all, just for starters. So I'm supposed to call them and ask someone to help me figure out how to restore communications to our spy in the J Corporation tower?"

  "Well, how about the guy who helped us already. Your friend, Parkins?"

  Sorensen laughed sourly. "Ron knows about as much about this kind of information gear as I know about ballet dancing. Not to mention the fact that he already said he doesn't want to be involved."

  "Jesus, we're all involved!" Ramsey put the pad down and went to wash his face in the sink, trying not to look at Sellars and the boy lying side by side on the bed, disaster victims waiting to be identified. He could feel the slipping of time as a physical thing; it made his fingers twitch. Sellers' voice on the wire, the apocalyptic warning about the death of the network, had gotten into Ramsey like a virus.