Edge (26 page)

    Opal tapped Richard on the forehead. "Don't say sorry again."

    He grinned and shook his head.

    "All right," said Brian. "Take out your gear, and let's take a look."

    Around the workshop stood several wooden workbenches with clamps and tools, covered with bits of bicycles and other equipment, not to mention sawdust, metal filings and the heavy smell of oil, currently contaminated with sharp chemical scents leaking through the door. Opal made room on the least cluttered bench, then laid her backpack on top. From the pack, she extracted a pair of goggles and what looked like an ordinary white sweatshirt.

    Brian used a clamp to hold a spyball camera in place behind the goggles. Then, even though there were four wallscreens in place, he unfolded a small display and positioned it in front of the goggles. Then he tapped his phone, and the screen lit up, showing a rotating abstract pattern.

    "Test pattern. Opal, let's have the blackout cloth."

    She rummaged on a shelf, then backed out bearing a folded black cloth. It looked flimsy as she opened it out, spreading it with Brian's help over the workbench, forming a tent over spyball, goggles, and the screen with the test pattern.

    "The cloth's one hundred percent opaque," said Brian. "Lightweight but optically dense."

    "Oh." Richard looked at the wall screen. "You're testing the goggle's response."

    "Bright lad." Brian pointed his phone at a wallscreen, causing it to show numeric data plus a copy of the changing test pattern. "Now we cross-check the calibration."

    "It's all right, isn't it?" said Opal.

    "Your long-wavelength response is a little skewed." Brian pointed. "So it ain't perfect. But safe enough to use."

    "Good."

    Richard looked from one to the other. "Use for what?"

    "Night run," said Opal.

    "Tonight." Brian grinned. "You'll see."

    "And the shirt." Opal laid the sweatshirt on the bench, clipped a thin cable to the fabric, and held out the other end of the cable. It had a phone connector. "You got the downloads ready?"

    "Uh-huh. How's it working at the moment?"

    "All right, I think."

    "Let's see."

    Opal did something, then star-shaped splashes of sapphire blue and glimmering emerald radiated from the centre of the shirt, pulsing over and over. After a moment, the red outline of a gekrunner began tumbling through extreme gymnastics across the blazing background.

    "Wow," said Richard.

    "It's so old." Opal looked pleased anyway. "Need something new for tonight."

    "I've got just the thing," said Brian, taking the cable. "Switch it off, and I'll run the download."

    "Lots of bright colours?"

    "Absolutely."

    "None of your political slogans?"

    "Not for you."

    "But no pink, right?"

    "Wouldn't dream of it." Brian looked at Richard. "I hope you're memorising all this. If you buy her a present, it can be anything but pink."

    "I don't–" His face was warming. "Er…"

    "Maybe a pink
face
is all right."

    "You're both stupid," said Opal. "I'm going. I'll be back later."

    She started towards the main shop, then stopped, perhaps remembering the noxious aerosol spray, and headed for the back door, which she slammed open, stormed through, and hooked backwards with her heel.
"–ing boys,"
floated back as the door banged shut. "Something I said?" asked Brian.

Bright sunshine. Stinking black bags filled with household refuse, stacked outside houses, waiting for services that would not come until the strike was over. That would mean the union and management sitting down to negotiate, pulling their thumbs out of their butts and talking to each other like actual human beings, abandoning the chip-on-shoulder resentment that was the national pastime. Josh had fought in Zimbabwe, in the former Somalia, and on the ice-covered steppes of Siberia. Every conflict was awful; each had provided glimpses of ordinary people, sometimes working heroically to keep their families or neighbours from starving, often amid surroundings that made Britain a paradise in comparison, every house an imperial palace.

    
People should have some fucking gratitude.

    In a small park with pollution-stained grass, Josh sat beneath a tree, working his phone. His new querybots were popping up a richness of data, hits tagged gekrunning, freerunning or both. Among the surveillance data, none crossmatched exactly with the search argument Opal, but among the myriad currents of microblogs, he found something related – an avatar called OpalKid273, who had posted today:

    Most of her subscribers were in the
run_gek_run
forum. Hyperlinks had been bidirectional since Semantic Web, but few users realised the ease with which querybots could heuristically backtrack. Philip Broomhall had asked how it was that Josh Cumberland could do more than the police; the truth was that it did take many eyes to search for a missing youth, but Josh had an army of observers – they just weren't human, they were code.

    In the gekrunning subculture, night runs were a feature; and tonight's run, according to the forums, was an unofficial part of the Mayor's Festival, set up years ago by some politician called Boris Livingstone, or something – he didn't bother checking. Perhaps, if OpalKid273 was the right person, she would have Richard Broomhall in tow tonight. His best inductivereasoning bots were searching for links between the avatar and real images, ready to notify him in near-realtime if she appeared.

    Bringing himself back to the real world, he scanned the park, the stunted trees and rust-patched playground, noting shadows and geometry, angles of movement, and the thirteen people currently here, none paying attention to him or close enough to attack. Then he raised the phone.

    "Call Big Tel."

    "Hiya, mate," Terry answered in a second. "How's tricks?"

    "Usual. Are you free tonight?"

    "Had a busy morning, loads of legit fares, plus a little observation job at the same time. Putting my feet up now."

    "So if you and your taxi were on standby for a callout, that'd work?"

    "Depends where it is you're talking about."

    "South Bank, or close to it."

    "Easy enough from the Old Kent Road. Give us a buzz and I'll be there. Prep for trouble?"

    "A fourteen year-old lad. I might be able to handle him."

    "Watch out for him squeezing zits at you. The old pus-in-the-eye trick."

    "Jesus, Tel. You were a kid once yourself."

    "Yeah, I had a strong right hand and poor eyesight, from all that puberty."

    "And look how you turned out."

    "Suave and sophisticated. A gentleman, like."

    "Pretty much what I was thinking."

    "Later, pal."

    "Later."

He wanted to phone Suzanne, but her phone was bugged. Except that he could always introduce a little misdirection. In his phone's Favourite Apps, he opened a hotel and pub guide, then tapped an improbable series of keystrokes on the pad, stared at the lens so it could read his retina pattern, and placed the call. His signal now carried sneakware that subverted the GPSID system, changing the coordinates of his phone as logged in the data tier. So long as he and Suzanne were careful with their words, it was safe.

    "Hey," he said.

    "Josh. You're doing OK?"

    "Yeah."

    "Any luck on… you know." She was being circumspect, but if the police were monitoring the case, they knew what he was working on.

    "Maybe Richard has a friend, maybe not. If I can find this person, it might help."

    "That's good."

    "Suzanne? Are you OK?"

    "Disciplinary hearing. I've been served notice."

    "What do you mean, disciplinary hearing?"

    "Mr Broomhall has taken legal action through the

professional association I belong to. Apparently, that does not preclude the possibility of further action through the courts, it says here."

    "Shit. Are you suspended?"

    "No, but they tried for that. The review board agreed that the case was serious, but not that the initial evidence was so strong that I needed to be kept from seeing clients in advance of the hearing. They advised me to let my insurance company know what was happening, and not take on any new clients."

    "You'll be all right. I'm sure you will."

    "Thanks, but Broomhall has expensive lawyers, and I don't. The army with the biggest guns wins, isn't that how it works?"

    Josh stared at her in the phone.

    "You know, when Thatcher was prime minister forty years ago, a full-blooded Marxist coup clamped down on the Gambia republic, taking their prime minister's family hostage. Said prime minister was visiting Britain at the time – he was an ally – so old Iron Maggie didn't take too kindly to that."

    "I know where the Gambia is. I don't know this story."

    "Three – count 'em – three Regiment guys went in country to investigate, and discovered that the rebels were holding the family in a hospital. The guys went in openly and without weapons, knowing they would be searched."

    In the phone, Suzanne nodded, though her expression remained unhappy.

    "But they didn't need weapons," he went on, "because once inside, they beat the bejesus out of some of the guards, took away their guns, and proceeded to extract the family. Spirited them away in the night. In and out like ghosts."

"You mean like ninjas?"

    "Yeah, like that. The thing was, that was all it took for the coup to collapse and the government to reinstate itself. Three quiet guys."

    Suzanne bit her (very kissable) lower lip.

    "You're an interesting man, Mr Cumberland."

    "And you're not so bad, Dr Duchesne."

    "You want to meet up for lunch tomorrow? In Victoria would be best for me."

    "If I can. I'll ring you in the morning to confirm. Say, ten-ish?"

    "Yes. Good luck."

    He rang off, checked the surrounding park again. Three people had left, none had entered, and all appeared quiet. A boomglobe played music. Outside the railings, a group of youths was passing. Suddenly, one guy leaped up, hit the railings and flipped over backwards to land in a crouch, then threw himself into a shoulder roll and came up to his feet. The others laughed, one clapped his shoulder; then the group continued onward, joking about something.

    
The gekrunners are gathering.

    Or maybe they were freerunners, but two of them wore backpacks that might contain gek-gloves and boots. He could jog after them, catch them up and ask about Richard or Opal, but it might have the opposite effect to what he wanted. They looked like lads who would be suspicious of the law, or someone who acted halfway official – witness the thugs in the café who had assumed he was a police officer, simply because of the way he stood and used his voice.

    His fingers seemed to tap the phone by themselves.

    What the hell am I doing?

    His now-ex-wife's image appeared, eyes widening.

    "I didn't expect you to call."

    "Come off it, Maria. We can still talk."

    "Yes, but will we actually say anything?"

    She was there in his phone in miniature, the woman he had slept beside – when he was at home – for so many years, who had shared the unglamorous intimacies of farting in bed, of peeing while the other showered, of doing each other's laundry, the deep sharing of everyday life that goes beyond romance; while the miracle they had created in collaboration was one day to become a woman in her own right, except of course that would never happen, not now, because the mind was gone and the body-shell would not last, not even with the machines; because humankind can build electronic bellows to work the lungs but not rekindle the fire of a living mind.

    She knew him deeply, this stranger. There were no secrets. They could say anything to each other. Yet there was a disconnect: a severed cable that had once linked two human souls in the ultra-high bandwidth, two-way transmission of love; a gap in the hardware; a break in the signal that might be only centimetres but might as well be lightyears, too wide for the spark to leap across.

    "If you need anything, you can call on me for help."

    "All right."

    "How's… ? Have you been to the hospital lately?"

    From the webcam recordings he could check, but he usually just peeked in at the realtime image whenever he had to, at whatever random time the urge arose.

    "Yeah. Hammond talked to me today. With our, er, new status… it will only take one of us to consent to, ah, you know."

    "Turning off the machines."

    "Right."

    "Because he wants the organs for donation."

    "I told him to keep Sophie alive. God decides when life ends."

    He did not believe that. But if Maria's belief system helped her through this, he would hold back on attacking it.

    "Whatever your decision, I'll back you up."

    "Are you sure y–? OK. Thank you."

    "Take care of yourself."

    "Yes. What are you doing right now?" In the screen, she blinked. "You're outdoors, with voices and music. A party?"

    "I'm working."

    "Ah. I should have guessed."

    "I'm sorry, I've always been too focused on–"

    "Josh, it's all right. We're on different life-paths, that's all."