Charles Stross - Halting State

“Thanks,” she said, a genuine smile now, and patted the futon beside her. “How about we order in a pizza? You’ve still got a land-line, right?”

A pizza in the darkness demanded accompaniment—the neglected litre-bottle of Belgian beer in the fridge—and you rummaged around with the cables and plugged your pod straight into the speakers, and then she started rummaging through your music collection until she found a bunch of tracks by Miranda Sex Garden that you’d completely forgotten about to ooh and ah over, and made small-talk about gigs she’d been to (with a friend, you inferred, conveniently airbrushed out of the frame), and her gaming/re-enactment habit. There’d been an odd moment when she found a project you’d forgotten about sitting under the stack of magazines in the bathroom, but then you’d explained it was your knitting, not an ex’s, and she’d taken it in her stride; and that got you both onto talking about how your respective jobs had got in the way of you having a life, and opened the second (unchilled) bottle of Belgian beer. She’d asked how you were feeling after the crash, and confessed her neck was stiff, and you’d gingerly, inexpertly, rubbed it by way of confirmation. Until you’d tipsily noticed how late it was getting and had suggested maybe it was time to go to bed, and fetch the spare bedding—and she’d somehow managed to imply that this was unnecessary. She kissed you like a small, cold creature seeking warmth, and you’d tried desperately to remember how to kiss someone back passionately, half-paralysed with fear that the moment wasn’t going to last.

And then you had to say it.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” you said, through a throat that felt like bricks lined with cobwebs.

“Mm?” She tensed slightly and pulled back.

“When I was fourteen, at school”—she stopped moving in your arms, going limp, listening—“I got caught on camera.”

It was the old shame and embarrassment tap-dance. It took you a moment to gather your wits: during which she tensed. “What were you doing?”

“I was”—you took a deep breath—“she was fifteen. We were doing this, more or less. Kissing.”

You felt the tension go out of her. “That’s all?”

“The head teacher was having a, a demonstration. Showing his new camera system to the community relations constable. Who noticed it officially. They called me up.”

“What?” The tension in her arms is systolic, squeezing you like an ocean.

“Under the Sexual Offences Act, the new one they’d just passed, any sexual contact with an under-sixteen was—well, we didn’t know any better, and it was before they passed the amendment a couple of years later. I accepted a caution. And so did Claire.”

“What?” Her arms tightened around you.

“I’m just trying to say.” You took a deep breath: “You may not want to go any further. With someone who’s listed on the sex offender’s register as a paedophile.”

She shuddered slightly. “A what ?” She sounded incredulous.

“Sexual contact with a minor. It covers kissing or copping a feel, you know? She was nearly a year older than I was; another twelve months and we’d have been legal, anyway, but the trouble is, neither of us knew better than to accept a caution. It means they won’t prosecute; but it’s an admission of guilt, it gets you a criminal record, and unlike a conviction in court which carries a sentence with an expiry date, a caution is never spent. If I’d kicked up a fuss and demanded a trial, the children’s panel would have told the police to piss off and stop wasting their time, but as it is…it follows me around.” Your breath was coming too fast. “I’m scared .”

You realized after a moment that she was still holding on to you tightly. Almost like she was drowning. “Jack.” She spoke into the base of your throat. “I have to ask you this. Are you a nonce?”

“No, but I have to tell—” No, you don’t have to tell, but the mummy lobe, the five-year-old who believed what the grown-ups said about always telling the truth, had to confess to everything , just like that horrible morning in the head’s office—

“Honestly, Jack, you don’t .” Her nose was at the side of your neck. You could feel her tongue, exploring your clavicle. “It’s just a bug in the legal code. You don’t need to punish yourself any more.”

“What they’ll do—Michaels says Elsie is missing—”

“Shut up!” She was fierce, angrier than Lucy was when she found out and dumped you, hotter than the coldly venomous whispering behind your back during that last, miserable (not to mention celibate) year at university. But the strength of her hug told you it wasn’t you she was angry at. “Idiot. How old do you think I was the first time I kissed a boy?”

“I’m afraid—”

She kissed you again. “They didn’t catch me on camera. That’s the only difference between us.”

And now she’s breathing evenly and slowly, a faint draught of cool, slightly beery breath riffling through the fine hairs on your arm: And you’re studying her closed eyelids and relaxed face, her dark eyebrows relaxed in sleep, by the faint glow of the red LED street-lamp outside the bedroom window, and you’re feeling a tenderness almost as vast as the sea of surprise that’s crashed through your front door and made itself at home under the duvet, warm and naked and sleeping next to you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you think, This probably changes everything. But whether it changes it for better or worse, only time will tell.

You know what Liz wants you to do, don’t you? She wants you to go and find the nerd and the librarian, Jack Reed and Elaine Barnaby, and put it to them that they can be of help in your investigation. (That, and she wants you to switch all your network services off and wear a tinfoil hat under your four-leafed clover.) Which would be easy enough, if you could only bloody locate the terrible twosome. As it is, when you get back to the station and go live again, you bounce in quick succession off their voice mailboxes, IM receptionists, and social websites. Which tells you a lot about them (Jack’s into extreme knitting, Elaine likes dressing up as Maid Marian and hitting people with a sword) but nothing particularly useful like where they’re hiding. After half an hour of persistently not finding them—you know they headed over to Glasgow in the morning, but, by the time you get to the point of escalating your search, both their mobies are off-line—you’re out of ideas. So it’s time to get all twentieth-century and hit the pavement.

Except these two aren’t your usual neds. They’ve got no pavement to hang out on, just a hotel room and a recycled nuclear bunker. By the time you’ve confirmed they’re not filling up a conference room at the hotel, you’ve narrowed it down a wee bit: But then you hit a blank wall down at the bunker.

“They’re not here.” It’s Beccy Webster, the Market Stabilization Executive, coming on all Lady Macbeth at you. “I haven’t seen them, they haven’t been signed in, and you’re wasting your time.” She sniffs and stares down her nose, like you’re from the cleaning agency, and you’ve just smeared printer toner all over her nice clean walls.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow at her, but your authority field is down below half strength. She just looks at you icily and nods.

“Yes. We’ve tightened up security a lot since last week.”

Fuck. “Is Mr. Richardson in his office, then?”

“Of course. But he won’t tell you any different.” One more sniff, and she signs you in, then stalks off in a huff. Bitch. But you’ve been here before, and you know the way. So you go and knock on Wayne’s door, and when it opens, you give him your best shit-eating grin.