William Gibson - Zero history

“Her car’s here.” Truck had seemed too specific. “Can you let her know, please?”

“You’ll want the desk,” the tall young man had said, turning and walking back to what Milgrim now assumed to be his station by the door.

There hadn’t seemed to be any, or not in the stand-up, pigeonholes-behind sense, so Milgrim had continued on, another ten feet or so, to where this other, smaller, similarly suited young man was seated. “Hollis Henry,” he’d said, trying his neutral tone again, though it hadn’t come out very well. He’d thought it sounded rather dirty, somehow, though perhaps that was the carving, which he’d noticed as he spoke.

“Name?”

“Milgrim.”

“Are you expected?”

“Yes.”

Milgrim, viewed through what he imagined were probably parts of the actual exoskeleton of a dead if not extinct animal, held his ground while a very elegantly ancient-looking telephone was brought into play. “She doesn’t appear to be in.”

From somewhere beyond the stair came a complex rattle of metal, and then the sound of Hollis’s voice.

“That would be her now,” said Milgrim.

Then Hollis appeared, beside a tall, pale, hawk-nosed, ferocious-looking woman who might have been captain of the guard at some Goth queen’s palace, to judge by her tight short jacket, with its fringed epaulets and ornate frogs, every shade from charcoal to midnight. She needs a saber, Milgrim thought, delighted.

“Your car is here, Miss Henry,” said Tortoiseshell, Milgrim having apparently become invisible.

“This is Heidi, Milgrim.” Hollis sounded tired.

The tall woman’s large, startlingly strong hand effortlessly captured Milgrim’s, giving it a brisk, rhythmic shake, possibly half of some covert recognition system. Milgrim’s hand was allowed to escape.

“She’s coming with us.”

“Of course,” said Milgrim as the tall one, Heidi, headed for the door, her stride long and determined.

“Good evening, Miss Hyde, Miss Henry,” said Pinstripes.

“Honey,” said Heidi.

“Robert,” said Hollis.

He opened and held the door for them.

“Now, that’s a ride,” said Heidi, catching sight of the Hilux. “Lose your rocket launcher?”

Milgrim looked back as Pinstripes closed the door behind them. Was there such a thing as a private hotel? He knew that there were private parks here. “What’s this hotel called?” he asked.

“Cabinet,” said Hollis. “Let’s go.”

Heidi, for some reason, knew a great deal about custom vehicular armor. Perhaps it was a Beverly Hills thing, Hollis thought, as Aldous wound them deeper into the City, or a Ponzi scheme thing, or both. Heidi and Aldous, with whom Hollis could see Heidi was flirting, though still at a level of solid deniability, were deep in a discussion of whether or not Bigend had been wise to insist on power windows for the front set of doors, which had meant forgoing a bulletproof documentation slot on the driver’s side, through which papers might be presented without opening either the door or the window. The power windows, Heidi maintained, meant that the doors were necessarily armored to a lower standard, with Aldous firmly insisting that this was not the case.

“I wish I didn’t have to see him now,” said Milgrim, beside Hollis in the back seat. “I have to tell him something.”

“So do I,” said Hollis, not caring whether Aldous heard, though she doubted that he did. “I’m quitting.”

“You are?” Milgrim looked suddenly bereft.

“Meredith’s changed her mind about telling me who the Hounds designer is. Her reason for doing that left me thinking I should let the whole thing go.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll tell him I can’t do it. That should be that.” She wished she were as confident as she’d just sounded. “What do you have to tell him?”

“About Preston Gracie,” said Milgrim, “the man Foley’s working for.”

“How do you know that?”

“Someone told me,” said Milgrim, and actually squirmed. “Someone I met.”

“Who’s Preston Gracie?”

“Mike,” Milgrim said. “She says they’re all named Mike.”

“All who?”

“Special soldiers.”

“He’s a soldier?”

“Not anymore. An arms dealer.”

“She who?”

“Winnie,” said Milgrim, his voice catching. “She’s a… cop.” This last emerging, Hollis thought, as though he were having to confess, in utmost seriousness, to having had a conversation, or perhaps some more intimate exchange, with some other species entirely. “Well, sort of a cop. Worse, probably. A DCIS agent.” He pronounced this “deesis,” and she had no idea what it meant.

“That’s British?”

“No,” said Milgrim, “she followed me from Myrtle Beach. What she does is about military contracts, at least it is this time. She took my picture, in Seven Dials. Then came to the hotel. Do you want your computer back?”

“Of course not,” said Hollis. “Why did she follow you?”

“She thought we might be involved with Gracie. That Bigend might be. Then she talked to me, and saw that Bigend’s just after the same contracts.” She could barely hear him now.

“Bigend’s an arms dealer?” She looked at the back of Aldous’s head.

“No,” said Milgrim, “but Gracie’s trying to be involved in the same sort of contracting. Legitimization.”

“And she told you this because…?”

“She wants Bigend to know,” Milgrim said, miserably.

“Then tell him.”

“I shouldn’t have been talking with her,” Milgrim said. He’d locked his hands together, like a child desperately miming prayer. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

His shoulders drew further together. “I just am ,” he said. “I’m like that. But I… forgot.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Hollis, immediately deciding it was a ridiculous thing to have said.

“I wish you weren’t quitting,” he said.

Narrow City streets, their names often basic common nouns. They had to be really old, then, she supposed. She didn’t know this part of London at all. Had no idea now where they were. “How much further?” she asked Aldous.

“Almost there,” said Aldous. There was little traffic. Quite a few very new buildings, recalling the boom prior to the bust. They passed one with a logo she remembered from an ad on the cab she’d taken, the night Inchmale had advised her to call Bigend.

She reached over and gave Milgrim’s balled double fist a squeeze. His hands were very cold. “Relax. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.” She saw that his eyes were closed.

“Draw Your Brakes” briefly filled the truck. “Aldous,” Aldous said into his iPhone. “Yes sir. Miss Henry, Mr. Milgrim, and Miss…?” He glanced back at Hollis.

“Give me the phone.”

He passed it back to her.

“Heidi’s with us,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting her,” said Bigend, “but she can play with the balloons. We do need to talk.”

“She’ll understand.” She handed the phone back to Aldous. He held it to his ear. “Yes sir,” he said, and slipped it into his black suitcoat.

“Milgrim and I have to have a talk with Hubertus,” Hollis said to Heidi.

Heidi turned. “I thought you wanted some help with that.”

“I did,” said Hollis, “but it’s gotten more complicated.” She rolled her eyes in Milgrim’s direction.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” said Hollis.

“Don’t let him fuck with you,” said Heidi, reaching back to prod Milgrim in the knee, causing his eyes to snap wide with terror. “He’s full of shit ,” she insisted, “they all are.” Leaving Hollis to wonder, as Aldous pulled the truck over, who they all were. Male authority figures, she guessed, from having known Heidi. Whatever had once made her serial liaisons with professional boxers so relentlessly lively, and had required her separation, as much as had been possible, from label executives.