Podstrony
|
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
she d never walked out with all her worldly goods and left Cerise bewildered and
angry, remembering, too, how good it had felt to be back together even just on the
street, and wonders what she will do now. Find out what they are saying in the
market about newTrouble, certainly; that she would do for herself, even if it
weren t what Trouble wanted. But afterwards& She fingers a code in memory, the
mailcode Silk had left her, wrapped in a glittering, Christmas-wrapped bomb.
After that, perhaps, perhaps she will follow that code, and see what Silk has to say
for herself.
The market plaza is busy, and she is glad of it, lets herself drift through the
crowd, not hiding her presence, but not advertising it, either. She hears fragments
of gossip, sees a silver sphere spring up briefly around a pair of icons sees too
the watchdog lunge for them but hears nothing that she doesn t already know.
Trouble the original, her Trouble is looking for the newTrouble, the one who
usurped her name; the net is divided as to the rights of it, the snatches she hears
uneasy, uncertain, but the lines are drawn. The only question left now is who will
stand where. It is as she expected pretty much, and she turns along the message
wall, readying a program she calls sticky fingers, lets it trawl past the gaudy
surface. She feels it working, process translated as sensation, a vibration that
becomes now and then a thump, as though she dragged a stick across an uneven
surface. She is proud of this routine, of the quick-search, the codebreaker, that lets
her scan the posted mail and steal quick-copies of those messages that match the
search criteria. They will be imperfect, made on the fly, but she can reconstruct
them later, and they will give her an idea of how the net is taking this.
She reaches the end of the wall, and feels the program shut itself down,
slapping back into her hand, the stolen messages heavy in memory. She finds a
departure node, lets herself out onto the net, hovers for an instant in the
datastream, letting the bits pour past her like a river of gold. She should go home,
or back to real-Seahaven, where she can study the data that hangs in memory, but
she reaches instead for the mailcode she has carried with her since she met Silk,
and follows it instead, turning down the lines of light toward the unreal space
where Silk has said she can be found.
Trouble walks the net like the ghost of herself, brainworm turned off, presenting
a generic icon to the general view. The net lies flat before her, black lines and dots
on silver, black-and-grey symbols scribed across her sight as the net relays its
messages. It is slow, painfully so, like wading through mud; she is deaf and numb
swathed in the lack of sensation, and she feels her hands straining against the
data gloves, muscles tightening as though, if she just works a little harder, she
could feel again. She s been through this before and makes herself relax, but she
can feel herself tense again as soon as her attention turns elsewhere. There is an
ache behind her eyes, dull as black on silver, and she knows she will be sorry in
the morning.
But she is effectively invisible in this guise, and most other net-walkers know
nothing else; she can live with it for an hour or so, the time she needs to gather
news. She turns toward the BBS she slides along a thick black line, impervious to
the data that she knows is flowing with her, past her, passes through a node like a
great black gear, icons flickering above it to tell her who the parent users are,
follows another, thicker line, and then a thinner, turning at right angles, always,
from grid to grid, and then she s on the floor of the BBS at last, a poor shadow of
itself. Icons badge the air, offer other, smaller grids, or inner menu boards, and
the view streams with brighter silver dots. She stops at one familiar display, where
anyone can post a notice to the world. The board roils almost painfully in her
sight, black print over silver-and-grey moire; a button hangs to her left, offering to
clear the screen if she will log on, but she doesn t, prefers to keep her anonymity
even as she squints at the distorted letters. The system is old, from the first days of
the net; whoever is manager here still keeps the doors open to the world. She skims
through three pages, then flips through a dozen more pretty much at random: her
challenge has traveled even here, well into the bright lights, and it s made a lot of
people nervous. Comment is divided, perhaps a third against and a third
approving and a third deploring the situation altogether; perhaps half agree that
new-Trouble had no right to take her name. Pretty much what she d expected, she
thinks, and she slips away again, riding the first major line out of the BBS. It s too
crowded there, too painful to work without the brainworm to give depth and
substance; she prefers the main net, the data highways, if she has to live without
sensation.
She slides along a familiar gridline, watching for a starred intersection that
will take her up another plane, deeper into the net. She reaches the intersection,
makes the transfer, and codes flash before her eyes, icons and a stream of numbers
warning her that another person, another icon, is overtaking her, signaling for her
attention. She recognizes the main icon, and the contact code, sends codes of her
own, and feels her secondary translator lock and mesh with the newcomer s.
*Hello, Trouble,* Arabesque s voice says, in her ear.
She frowns, wishing she had more to go on than just the sound without the
wire, all she has is the flat code that hangs in the air in front of her, black on
silver. *Hello, Rachelle,* she answers, and knows she sounds less than
enthusiastic.
*I thought you might like to know,* Arabesque says, and Trouble imagines she
hears a hint of malice in her voice. *The Mayor s not best pleased with you.*
*The Mayor of Seahaven?* she asks, for want of a better question, wanting
time to think, and Arabesque laughs.
*Is there another? He s saying he floats it as a question, someone else s name,
but the word is he s behind it. He says you should be the one to be shopped, not
newTrouble you re not really one of us, he says, just another dyke on the wire,
using it cause you re not good enough to run the net bare.* There is contempt in
her voice, and anger: this touches her, too.
*What s the response?* Trouble asks, and is pleased to hear herself
dispassionate, as though she didn t really care.
*Not a lot of support,* Arabesque answers, and Trouble thinks she shrugged.
*Maybe ten percent of what I saw, certainly no more than that.* There is a pause;
Trouble waits, hating to be blind. *A lot of people were really shocked, Trouble,
that s the good thing. They expected the Mayor to back you up, since he s always
been so protective of his name.*
*What s he so pissed off about?* Trouble says.
*You ve been making pretty free with his boards,* Arabesque says, *you and
Cerise. And you ve never been appropriately thankful.*
Trouble grimaces, feels her lips twist, knows the gesture is invisible. *He s never
done anything to be thanked for.*
*Whatever,* Arabesque says. *But I thought you ought to know what he was
saying.*
*What s the name he s using? Can I prove it s him?*
*I doubt it. It s posted under Sasquatch I couldn t prove it was the Mayor, but
I m morally certain it s him.*
Trouble considers this for a heartbeat, marshalling her options. *Thanks,
Rachelle,* she says at last, regretting again her lack of available expression. *I ll
keep on eye on this.*
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plkskarol.keep.pl
|
