Уильям Гибсон - Agency

Virgil was headed toward Geary now, pulling the drone.

Verity hurried to catch up, the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder with the added weight of the charger. She reflexively gave the girl a distracted smile, in spite of Ash’s order, as she and Virgil rounded the corner, making for the entrance. Saw nothing in the lobby suggestive of Cursion, though she supposed anyone could be a Followr. She saw Virgil slip the doorman some folded bills as they went out, and bowed her hoodied head over the controller case.

“This way,” Sevrin said, suddenly beside her, taking the controller case. Head still down, she made no eye contact, recognizing his fancy bus-driver shoes and zero-accent accent. He led her around what seemed to be an identical van, white this time but with windows equally dark. He slid open the passenger door, helped her up and in. Virgil climbed in behind her, Sevrin passing him the helmet case, which he placed on the second row of passenger seats.

Choosing the window seat behind the driver, she shrugged off her bag, putting it on the seat behind hers, beside the black case. Virgil was helping Sevrin get the drone up now, and onto the seat beside her. Over their shoulders, through a momentary gap in passing vehicles, she saw someone emerging from the bagel restaurant across the street. Short hair, wire-rimmed glasses, forty-something. Seeing the look of recognition as he saw her, she instantly knew that it had been the back of his crew-cut head she’d seen as he’d surveyed the junk on Joe-Eddy’s worktable.

“Across the street,” she said, “crew cut, glasses. Works for Cursion.”

“On it,” said Conner, as Sevrin scrambled over the console, into the driver’s seat, as what she thought of as the projector hatch in the drone’s carapace opened, something neutrally colored and vaguely cylindrical lifting out of it on quad rotors, more noisily than Verity’s drones from their Pelican case, to whisk out the open door.

In the center of the street now, something like an explosive exhalation of vape. She couldn’t see the man with the wire-rims.

Then Sevrin was driving them up Geary, away from a growing chorus of irritated horns. Virgil, who’d fallen back into the seat beside the drone, was fastening his seatbelt.

“What did you do?” Verity asked Conner.

“Fentanyl analog,” said Conner, “aerosol.”

“You killed him?” she asked.

“Might have gotten him run over,” Conner said, “but more likely he just blacked out. Ash’ll be pissed, but his records indicate he has some moves. Didn’t want him getting across the street.”

“Trimethyl phentanylum?” Ash asked, not sounding particularly angry to Verity.

“They got it on a darknet,” Conner said. “Right drone and aerosolizer, you’re good to go. Installed thirty minutes before Verity turned up.”

Sevrin, having taken a left, took another, headed in the direction opposite the one they’d departed in, on a street parallel to Geary, driving as though nothing had happened. Sirens seemed to be converging, but then she realized the van was directly behind the Clift.

“Who was that?” asked Wilf.

“Someone Cursion sent to bug Joe-Eddy’s,” Verity said, sitting back and buckling her seatbelt. “Eunice showed him to me in a feed, when he was up there. He saw me getting in the van, recognized me, started to cross, but Conner zapped him.” She looked at the drone, which Virgil and Sevrin hadn’t had time to belt in. “Thanks, Conner.”

“De nada.”

“Where are we going?” Verity asked.

“For a change of license plates and the application of decals,” Ash said. “We had planned to take you back to the Bertrand-Howell project site, but that’s been scratched, given media have a link between you and Stets’ star assistant.”

“‘Star assistant,’” said Virgil, who hadn’t opened his mouth since climbing into the van, from his seat beside the drone. “You write for tabloids?”

“Quoting one’s site, two minutes ago,” said Ash.

What are they doing now?” Rainey asked, sounding as if she were in the kitchen. He was watching the surprisingly graceful movements of the men Ash said were applying decals to this vehicle’s exterior.

Netherton muted. “A Cursion operative spotted Verity. Someone she recognized. He tried to get closer to us as we were about to leave. Conner used a small drone, knocked him out with an aerosol.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a vehicle like the one that brought us from Oakland, presently in a parking structure, not far from the hotel. A section of the place has been curtained off for privacy. Men are applying large decals to the top, back, and sides.”

“Who’s there?”

“Verity, Virgil, and Sevrin, the driver. And money launderer, according to Ash. She and Conner are accessing the drone with me.”

“Can they hear us?”

“Not at the moment.”

“What are they doing?”

“Ash and Conner are silent. Our three locals have their phones out and seem to be catching up on the news.”

“How is the news?”

“They strike me as gravely concerned, but not speechless with horror.”

Verity, to the drone’s left, looked up from her phone. “More Russian jets down?”

“Two,” Virgil answered, on the drone’s right, “but Syrian, not Russian.”

“I should go now,” Netherton said to Rainey, deciding not to share this with her immediately.

“Go,” Rainey said, “bye.”

He unmuted. “Is it worse, then?” he asked.

“Definitely not better,” Verity said. She seemed to be watching water sluice down the windshield. Coveralled decal-appliers were working to either side, while two more, on ladders, apparently did the roof, plus another at the rear. “They look choreographed,” she said, just as the water stopped flowing and small electric motors started in unison.

Heat guns, Netherton saw, through the window tint, like antique hair dryers. “Where to next?” he asked.

“Waiting for instructions,” Ash said.

“How would you know that it isn’t Cursion giving you directions?” Netherton asked.

“Because they’re given to Sevrin by his brother, in Moldovan, and they have their own security signals. In the meantime, Verity can visit with me in E8, if she likes. Verity?”

Verity turned to the drone. “Is the peripheral there?” she asked.

“No,” said Ash, “and I haven’t much to offer you in the way of a telepresence device. Barest bones.” Netherton wondering if she meant that last literally.

“Won’t that leave me frozen on the seat here?” Verity looked questioningly at Virgil. “What if something happens and we need to get out?”

“There’s no neural cut-out for this device,” Ash said. “It has no moving parts. You’ll be able to hear what’s going on around you there, and take the controller off yourself, if need be.”

“Okay,” Verity said.

“Virgil,” Ash said, “could you please help Verity with the controller? This won’t require the saline paste.”

Virgil loosened his safety belt and turned, taking the case from the seat behind the drone. He placed it on his lap, then removed its top and sides. Seeing the stub-built controller a second time, it struck Netherton that it wouldn’t stand out at all, on the table next to Ash’s yurt.

“I don’t want that goop in my hair again,” Verity said.

Virgil helped Verity settle the controller on her head, reaching over the top of the drone.

“You’ll have audio-visual,” Ash said, “but no control, other than asking me to point it in desired directions.”

“Nausea?” Verity asked.

“No,” said Ash, “it’s neurologically too low-res to readily induce it. Ready?”