Уильям Гибсон - Agency

“What’s Verity doing?”

“She questioned what she assumes is one of Eunice’s subselves, her so-called laminae, on the phone she was given.”

“What did it say?”

“It put her in touch with Joe-Eddy, the man she stays with in San Francisco.”

“When you have an opportunity,” Rainey said, “ask her if there’s anything you can do to help.”

“With what?”

“The point being that it’s a general offer of assistance. Meanwhile, though, Lowbeer wants you in her car.”

“Why?”

“To take you to Cheapside.”

“Obligate cosplay,” he protested. “I’ve nothing period to wear.”

“You do now. She’s had assemblers rebuild a few items from your wardrobe. I spared you fly buttons on the trousers, though. Contemporary fastenings disguised as period, there.”

“Why Cheapside?”

“Clovis Fearing lives there. Said the three of you have something to discuss.”

“Did she say what it is?”

“Of course not. Wants you soonest.”

“What about the controller?”

“Definitely not period, unless you have it rebuilt in beaver.”

Netherton sighed, though he was getting rather tired of the couch. He unmuted. “I’ll be away for a bit,” he said.

Verity glanced up from whatever she was reading on the phone. “’Kay,” she said, which he understood as a low-intensity affirmative. No one else responded. He removed the controller and set it down beside him on the couch.

“Let me have a look at you when you’re dressed,” Rainey said. “You know I don’t mind a bit of cosplay.” She winked.

So Wednesday after I left u in W+L w Gavin I’m up here w the Manzilian negotiating a purchase for Eunice, and on the basis of that hooking him up with her directly. So I did hook them up while u were both with Gavin n she multitasked. Afterward I’m melting solder & pondering all this insane shit & u walk in I assume with Eunice, go into the kitchen. I get a text from Eunice I should go out, walk around. I do, all wearing the goggles, which get some looks but I don’t want to miss her. So she texts me I should walk around a little more. So I’m in a bookstore and bang she tells me Cursion’s about to try to take her down. Doesn’t know if they can or not but she has to assume it’ll be permanent if they do. Ask her where you are & she says with her but she’s made arrangements to get you somewhere safe. Says that what the Manzilian n I have been working on is part of a network to protect you & everyone in it. There’s us, the Manzilian, this money guy Sevrin who goes by Miguel, fabbers in Oakland. Plus more I haven’t hooked up with yet, all her hires, everybody earning over market in whatever field. Went over the cams Cursion installed here, how she’s spoofing them but that’ll stop when she’s gone. Who to expect turning up from her and how to positively identify em. Tells me to take care of you & the network & then she’s gone. So here I am under the covers with my thumbs getting sore but if you’re reading this it means we’ve already said hello. J-E

She’d been looking out the window, as she read this. Now she turned to Virgil. He’d been watching her. “Stets always wanted to hire him,” he said, “but we didn’t have anything for anyone like that to do.”

“If you had,” she said, “Stets and I wouldn’t have gotten together. Office romance with the boss is awkward enough, but not with your cousin working there.”

“He’s your cousin?” Virgil asked.

“No,” she said, “but like that.”

Assemblers not only produced perfect bespoke replicas of period costume, Netherton was reminded, putting on the black knee-length frock coat, but made them look as though the wearer had previously worn them, a subtlety of cosplay he knew he hadn’t matched with his knotting of this somber silk necktie. Fortunately it was the most problematically fastened garment of the lot, both the frock coat and the calf-length topcoat having, as Rainey had promised, period-accurate but perfectly manageable buttons. The shirt and trousers, and the high black shoes, though they appeared to button quite elaborately, employed invisible contemporary fasteners. He wouldn’t have bothered changing into the period-accurate underpants, but for Rainey having slyly mentioned wanting to see him in them later.

And no topper, to his great relief, Lowbeer having evidently recalled his dislike of them. Not that he particularly liked derbies either, he thought, as he put on this black one and considered the result in the bedroom mirror.

It did nothing for him, he decided, aside from definitively not being a top hat. He briefly tried imagining himself with a mustache, sideburns, or both. He’d never been interested in fancy dress, even as a child.

About to close the closet door, having tried to determine which garments of his the assemblers had made all this from, he noticed something unfamiliar propped inside, below his clothing. A walking stick, this proved to be, of what he assumed was ebony. Hexagonal in cross-section, with a round, complexly turned head of the same material, its top was inset with a well-worn sterling roundel, “W. Netherton” engraved across it in cursive. Lowbeer’s assemblers could have made this from his shoes, he decided, then noticed that several pairs of them were in fact missing. He must remember to insist on everything being returned to its original state, as much as he disliked the idea of that being accomplished in their bedroom closet.

A nicely balanced object, though, this stick. Pleasant in the hand. He opened the bedroom door, stepping out to show Rainey.

She whooped in delight, jumping up and running over, kissing him on the mouth, then took the derby and tried it on, tilting it quite far down over one eye. “You’ve found your winter look.” She grinned, and put it back on his head.

“Not a topper, at least. Forced to wear one last time I was coerced into going there. A City function in a guildhall, keeping Lev company. Reception afterward at a grillroom. You were still in Toronto.”

“You complained about it, I remember. But she called again, just now, while you were changing. Car waiting in the mews, gone helicopter again. Better get going.” She gave him an appraising look. “Are there garters?”

“Yes. Socks are wool, no elastic.”

“Whew,” she said, pretending to fan her face with her hand. “Can’t wait.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you,” he said.

“Socks on the brain right now, but fond of you myself.”

Remembering the gesture from some ancient video, he saluted her by lightly tapping the derby’s brim with the shaft of the stick. “Phone if you need me.”

“I will,” she said.

He saw his breath as he stepped out into the mews, the night being colder than he’d expected. He stroked the topcoat’s sleeve seam, before remembering it wasn’t a heated garment. Continuing down the mews with the stick over his shoulder, he saw the car’s door decloaking. It opened, the step descending.

“Come in,” said Lowbeer, from inside.

He did. She wasn’t there. “I’m in Cheapside,” she said, as the door closed behind him, her voice omnidirectional. “Please have a seat.”

He did, choosing the one to the rear, in order to be facing forward. As he was becoming aware of the faint residual scent of one of her candles, he felt the car rise smoothly, in perfect silence, up out of Alfred Mews.

“Care for a view?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” he said, preferring the buff walls. The walking stick lay diagonally across the oval table, the derby beside it.

The car was no longer rising now, and he was only faintly aware of forward momentum, though he knew this could be highly deceptive, as the attached quadcopter could be as fast as it was silent.