Уильям Гибсон - Agency

“Man got it right,” Conner said. “Hardly anybody does, the first time.”

“It feels like this is Lowbeer’s show,” Verity said, “so what does she actually do?” She saw Virgil’s attention sharpen, at this.

“On the books,” Conner said, “she’s just a cop. But the klept has her there to keep things stable. Their culture produces more than enough assholes, all scrambling for a bigger piece for themselves, to bring the whole thing down. But the other side of that coin’s stagnation, if the same big boys on top try to stay forever, so I think she may cover that too.”

“Klept?”

“The result,” said Virgil, “if Conner’s being straight with me, of paths we fortunately didn’t take.”

“No such luck,” Conner said. “You’re still plenty liable to get there, and so are we. And we’ve had four years now of future folks fiddling with us, trying to prevent that. Shit, we don’t even have those fancy phones of theirs yet.”

Virgil’s phone rang. He put it to his ear. “Sure is,” he said. “She’s having the continental breakfast.” He offered her the phone.

“How are you?” Stets asked. “Did you sleep?”

“I did, thanks. You?”

“Yes, but we’ve been having a very busy morning. Eunice’s branch plants have found us.”

“They’ve survived her?”

“Thrivingly.”

“What are they like?”

“Not like her at all.”

“She told me they did things behind her back. Like bring Joe-Eddy back from Germany. It was a surprise for her.”

“They’re keeping up the tradition with us. Our surprise this morning is that we’re hosting an event on very short notice. But I have to run now. We’ll speak later. Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” she said. He hung up. She passed the phone to Virgil.

“Rose Garden in ten,” Conner said, “got it.”

“Say what?” Virgil asked.

“My day job,” Conner said. “President’s taking questions from the press in half an hour, likes me to check if the translation from future-ese to folk wisdom’s solid. You need me, I’ll be right on it.”

“Break a leg,” said Virgil.

Verity, her mouth full of croissant and raspberry jam, said nothing.

“Anybody else in there?” Virgil asked the drone.

Silence.

“Money,” Virgil said, “for Stets, is a by-product of satisfying his own curiosity. He’s still amazed that most people who do what he does are in it mainly for the money. And Caitlin’s the same. So you get two curiosities like that, what could be more attractive than this crazy shit?”

“You’re supposed to be the house skeptic,” she said. “I keep hoping you’ll talk me out of it being real.”

“Conner’s been telling me his stub’s history. Same as ours, up to the election.”

“What election?”

“The president,” he said.

She saw the monochrome mural in Clarion Alley. The overt threat.

“They aren’t our future, that London,” he said. “Their past got him instead.”

She looked over at him, speechless.

“I know,” he said, nodding, “but here we sit, engaged in whatever this is, while lots of people expect the world to end, and real soon now.”

“I just agreed to disappear myself, supposedly to increase the chance of that not happening.”

“Who says?”

“Lowbeer. Met her in 2136.”

Virgil grinned. “Congratulations. You’ve crossed over.”

“To what?”

“To believing this shit. What’s disappeared look like, to her?”

“She says I’ve already done it, by being off Cursion’s radar, but I still don’t like the sound of it.”

“Me neither,” he said.

Rainey was at the kitchen table when Netherton came in, Thomas in his high chair. She was tickling one of the nanny’s pandaforms for his amusement. It lay on its back on the red tabletop, Thomas crooning excitedly as it thrashed about.

“Hello,” Netherton said, bending to kiss her forehead.

“Hello. How’s Lev?”

“Unhappy.” Straightening up. “Cheyne Walk is full of relatives, of course. Bit too klepty for his taste.” He glanced at the couch, seeing the controller where he’d left it. “Where’s the peri?”

“She called for one of the spa’s cars, to take her back to Floral Street. Place looks like a cross between a capsule hotel and a morgue. Had her take me through it on their site. Guests are all female. Bodies, semibiologic or not, which are legally someone else’s property, are an inherently creepy proposition.”

“Yes,” said Netherton, opening the refrigerator, “though in this case you wouldn’t know Flynne nearly as well, without that peri. If a different one were being rented for her, each visit, you wouldn’t have the same bond.”

“True, and neither would I have anything like the same sense of London, if she hadn’t wanted to see it all. I wouldn’t have visited the cosplay zones, for instance, because you don’t.”

“They’re for children,” he said, “and tourists. We can take Thomas, when he’s older.”

“Cheapside’s great,” she said. “The smell of it.”

“That’s mainly feces. Human as well as equine.”

“The crowds.”

“Bots, most of them.”

“It gives you a better sense of what it was like than any augmented reality,” she said. “Carnaby Street is AR, for instance, and spectral in comparison. And visitors aren’t required to dress for it, which makes it visually inconsistent.”

Not seeing anything in the refrigerator that appealed, he closed it. “I should check on the stub,” he said, glancing at the controller, uncomfortable with not being able to tell her what Lev, or for that matter Lowbeer, had told him. He looked down at a third of the nanny, squirming to escape Rainey’s tickling. It seemed to look back at him, out of shoe-button eyes.

“Go ahead,” said Rainey. “Seems like a good idea.”

He went to the couch, sat down beside the controller, picked it up, and put it on.

What would happen if I used this to call my mother?” Verity asked Virgil, indicating a hotel phone.

“Is she on cell?” Virgil asked, still on the couch with his feet up.

“Landline. She only turns her cell on if she’s out with it and needs to make a call.”

“Assuming Cursion’s tapped it, they’d record the conversation, probably be able to get the room number. According to your IT lady in the future—”

“Ash,” Verity said.

“She says Cursion aren’t, in themselves, a big deal. That they’re ex-government, so unconnected to state power. Which doesn’t make her happy, though, because she says that makes them liable to fuck us up without even meaning to. No street smarts. Way she thinks reminds me of what I do for Stets.”

“Except for what you do for Stets, not many people would’ve heard of him.”

“I didn’t hear you say that,” he said, and smiled. “But thanks. To the man’s credit, though, I know he tends to agree. But back to Cursion. Ash says Gavin’s their front in the industry, an actual businessperson with a background in technology. If you called your mother, those are the kind of people you might alert to our whereabouts. Hers too, though they probably already have that.”

“Stets still doesn’t have anyone exclusively on security?”

“Few of us do keep an eye on things,” he said.

“I know. You always did.”

“Caitlin doesn’t have security staff either. Her father has people in Paris, when she and Stets visit him, but they all have gray hair. The ones we notice, anyway.” He put one of his feet down and dug in a pants pocket. “Speaking of phones, I took delivery of this one while you were sleeping.” He leaned over to hand her a phone. “Not in your name.” He passed her a black charger, its cable wound around it, and a pair of black earbuds. “Not okay to phone your mother on, or anyone else Cursion might know you know, but you’ve got the web, and it’s programmed to dial fresh burners of ours.”