Уильям Гибсон - Agency

But by then it had become apparent that nobody in their party would be going to jail, and that Stets wouldn’t even have to pay more in fines than had been anticipated. Pryor, Conner had announced, had left the country. As, apparently, had the entire board of Cursion, Gavin evidently with them. She’d felt sorry for Gavin, in that, as Cursion’s board had sounded like what Conner described them as, a bag of dicks. While Gavin, from her own career experience prior to working for Stets, hadn’t really been that exceptionally dickish a top executive.

There had been two black limos waiting in the garage, huge, cartoonish, armored-looking, and they’d split into two groups to take those, each with three security people, to what she’d shortly discovered would be a private early-morning pre-opening of Wolven + Loaves, no doubt the result of Virgil’s PA abilities. They were all around the single longest table now, the front window blacked out with the kind of curtains photographers use, the limos parked outside on Valencia.

Joe-Eddy was seated opposite her, Caitlin on her right, Manuela on her left. Manuela had Carsyn to her left, and something was going on there. They definitely seemed to be enjoying one another’s company. The drone was standing to Joe-Eddy’s right, a few inches from the table, a chair having been removed for it. Stets was beside Caitlin, with Grim Tim, Sevrin, Kathy Fang, and Dixon making up the rest of the other side. Joe-Eddy grinned at her, his white goggles slightly lopsided. “You met the Apple guy,” he said to her.

“I did?” It was all running together now, the after-party.

“I met the people who make the albino angel mouse felt stuff Caitlin did the décor in,” said Joe-Eddy. “They were awesome.”

“They were drunk,” said Caitlin, “but nice.”

“So was the Apple guy,” said Joe-Eddy. “Not drunk, though.”

Everyone, it had turned out, had ordered the Egg McWolven and some variety of coffee. And these were arriving now, along with two trays, the color of the Tulpagenics glasses, of coffees.

“Wish we could talk,” she said, under her breath.

We can later. Or when you’ve gotten some sleep. It’s okay for you to relax now. We’re over the hump. Somewhere new.

“Qamishli, that’s really okay?”

Everybody’s going to have a hangover tomorrow, not just people who were at our party. They’re all celebrating. The Russians will make some noises, for a while, but they’re really all celebrating too. Eat your breakfast.

“We should have a toast,” Joe-Eddy said, Verity wondering if he’d read the Helvetica. “A shadow’s been lifted.”

“The president,” said Kathy Fang. “She got us out of it.”

Verity saw Joe-Eddy smirk.

“Eunice says it was the president,” Verity said to him.

“The president,” said Kathy Fang, raising her coffee, and they all clinked mugs, toasting the president.

Conner, in the drone, thrust its manipulator’s thumb-equivalents up in support, and she heard Ash’s voice join in as well.

Netherton had taken Thomas to Victoria Embankment that morning, to watch the Thames chimeras perform in their yuletide livery. The Trefoils, now decorated with Christmas trees, had been brought in very close to shore for the event, and had seemed to delight Thomas more than the synchronized antics of the chimeras.

He’d then taken him home, before joining Lowbeer in Marylebone for the sandwiches, their first visit to the place since she’d originally told him about Verity’s stub. Verity was friends now with Rainey, as indeed she was with Flynne, taking them both on tourist expeditions in her stub, via the awkward 2017 equivalent of Wheelie Boys. They’d particularly enjoyed Notre Dame, which had happened not to suffer a fire, in Verity’s 2019. They’d found Verity her own peri, for visiting London, which Lowbeer had purchased for her. That had only been confusing for a few moments, so thoroughly familiar was Flynne in hers.

Lev, meanwhile, was back with Dominika in Notting Hill, things evidently going smoothly. Anton, apparently, was still away in search of a cure for his addiction, with brother Radomir having taken over operation of the family’s businesses. Lev was now happy enough to privately detest Radomir’s taste in art, which Netherton gathered was exacerbated by Radomir’s degree in art history. Tedious as he found this, Netherton welcomed it as evidence of his friend’s return to emotional health.

He was having the gammon today, Lowbeer the ox tongue.

“Verity’s given me the impression,” Netherton said, their sandwiches not yet having arrived, “that Eunice becoming universally accessible was your idea.”

“It emerged from conversation,” Lowbeer said, “but I doubt it would have occurred to me to implement it with quite so stunning a degree of simplicity.”

“Are you happy with it?” he asked.

“The thing I found immediately in its favor, of course, was that nothing remotely like it would be allowed here. It’s a radical experiment, but performed in good faith. Since Eunice’s position, let alone her nature, has no equivalent in any history we know of, we’ll simply have to wait and see. How are Rainey and Thomas?”

“Very well,” said Netherton, as their sandwiches arrived. “She’s been promoted at her firm, and he’s just now taking his first steps.”

“Have you seen Ash lately?”

“We met her new partner,” Netherton said, “who Verity insists on calling a ‘woke’ peripheral. He’s entirely autonomous, not to mention very witty. And has his own assembler-swarm, which Ash claims makes him literally polymorphous perverse.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Whatever makes her happy,” Lowbeer said, “in these times of ours.”

Early readers of various stages of the manuscript included Diane Ademu-John, Sean Crawford, James Gleick, V. Harnell, Louis Lapprend, Felicia Martinez, Paul McCauley, Jack Womack, and Meredith Yayanos, all of whom provided crucial assistance and support, of wonderfully varied sorts. I’m very fortunate, and grateful, to know you all.

Eliot Peper very kindly responded to a last-minute request for some very particular San Francisco microgeography.

My wife, Deborah, of course, earliest and most regular of early readers, once again endured seemingly endless iterations of the first hundred pages or so, which is A Thing That Happens, in this case more so than usually.

Susan Allison, editor of the majority of my US editions since Neuromancer , was my editor when I signed the contract for the book which became this one, but had retired by the time this one was finally turned in, her editorial duties having been taken over by Jessica Wade, who then herself did a terrific job.

Ivan Held, my publisher, was supportive and patient through an unusually long wait, and I am very grateful to him, as ever.

—July 9, 2019