Lone Wolf (15 page)

So I go over it again, and again, and
again.
What resources can I use? Is there someone I’m forgetting, someone not in the Star’s computer and not known to the Cutters who I can trust and who’d be willing to do me a favor?

Or maybe it could be someone who
is
in the Star’s computer, but who’s got the jam to conceal the fact that they’re helping me. Someone like Cat Ashburton. Yeah, she could do it with one cerebral hemisphere tied behind her back.

I know I’m grinning, because the cold air on my front teeth makes them feel like they’re about to split. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Cat Ashburton’s got the skills, the access to the necessary equipment, and the jam to hide this kind of inquiry from outside scrutiny. The one question is, will she do it? Like they say, there’s only one way to find out.

I lean the big bike over and roar down the next off-ramp into the heart of South Tacoma, scanning for yet another fragging public phone.

12

I really need to sit down on something that’s not a bike for awhile, and that’s why I decide to take the risk and use the pay phone in this greasy-chopstick noodle house on South Sixty-fourth Street and Fife. The lunch crowd—mainly construction workers, seriously chromed and bulging grotesquely with vat-job muscle, who spend their days on the high steel of the fast-growing skyrakers—are on their way out, and I have to squeeze past them to get in. (Not
push
past them; your typical heavy-duty construction worker could reduce me to a spot of grease with one finger.) The pay phone’s at the back, in a small transplas-fronted cubicle with a door and a seat.

The air’s heavy with the reek of recycled frying fat. As it fills my nose, my brain gets the message, my stomach starts twisting and clenching, and I could suddenly eat one of the tables. How long since I’ve last eaten? Coming up on twenty-four hours, I’d guess. Considering how fast stress burns energy, I’m probably already digesting muscle tissue.

A waiter—a little Chinese guy in a jumpsuit that used to be white—approaches tentatively. “Yah?”

I glance at the list of specials on the wall. “Yakisoba and gyoza,” I tell him without breaking stride. “Make that two gyoza. Back here.” And I point to the phone booth. He nods quickly and scurries off.

The phone’s all in one piece, I’m glad to see. I slump down in the seat and shut the door firmly behind me. There’s a polarization control for the electrosensitive crystals in the transplas, and I set it for one-way. I can see out—not too well, because the calibration’s way off—but (theoretically) nobody can see in. (I read somewhere that far infrared isn’t affected by the crystals, but if someone packing that much tech’s close enough for it to matter, I’m dead anyway.) I take a deep breath to calm myself, to slow down the pulse that’s racing in my ears, and check my watch again.

Where’s Cat Ashburton going to be at 1346 on a Tuesday—no, Wednesday—afternoon? She’s in the Management Information System side of things, which at the Star is a round-the-clock every-day-of-the-year department. The senior suits work banker’s hours—1000 to 1630, with at least an hour for lunch—but the middle managers like Cat get ground hard, doing shift-work. In other words, there’s no way of knowing if she’s in the office or not.

I’m gearing myself up to do battle with the Star’s receptionists—all part of some conspiracy to misdirect all important phone calls, I’m fragging sure of it—when I decide to try her at home. The odds are much longer, but it’s one less hassle if they pan out. I key in 114 for directory assistance, then when the synthesized voice starts yammering, I enter the “special functions” code known to all Lone Star employees (and to most of Seattle’s shadow community as well). With “special functions” engaged, the directory search engine looks through more useful files than just the standard name-LTG-address drek 114 usually gives you. I key in my search string—in English, “Get me the number for one Ashburton, Catherine, age range twenty-five to thirty-five, employed by Lone Star, and make it snappy”—and hit the XQT key. A second later the screen flashes, “I hit(s)”, and asks for a second code, this one an authorization to reassure the poor machine that it’s okay to give me what I want. I rattle in the character string, and see Cat’s number displayed. LTG 5206 (15-2534)—that’s Tacoma, Menlo Park to be exact. Cat must be doing well for herself. Dossing down in that part of town isn’t cheap.

There’s a knock on the transplas door. My reflexes are jazzed so high that I’ve got my H & K out, and damn near almost squeezed off a burst before I see it’s the waiter with my lunch. He doesn’t twitch or faint or go for his own heat, so at least that’s some reassurance the one-way polarization works. The H & K goes back into its holster; I slide open the door and grab the fiberform tray covered with steaming food from the waiter’s hands. He opens his mouth—to ask for payment, probably—but I slam the door shut before he can get out the first word. Through the one-way transplas I see him shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, apparently trying to decide whether to knock again. Then maybe he figures discretion is the better part, and all that drek, and off he slouches.

I take a minute to cram some gyoza and noodles into my face—hot enough to scorch my tongue, but who gives a frag, it’s (synthesized) food—then I tell the pay phone to call Cat’s number. The vidscreen shows the normal shifting colors and patterns, supposedly designed by psych-wonks to calm people down so they don’t trash the phone while they’re waiting for the connection to be made. Then the status bar along the bottom of the display flashes CONNECTED. The screen clears, and there’s Cat—copper hair that looks like it’s polished, big round eyes, a polite if distant smile. “You have reached...

I don’t listen to the rest of the spiel. Frag, a recording. I reach for the key to disconnect . ..

And the image changes. The perfect, glossy image of Cat vanishes, to be replaced by a darkened room, A head moves into the shot, too close to the pickup and slightly out of focus. The same copper hair, but now it looks like a bird’s nest. Same eyes, but puffy with sleep and barely open. “Mam,” Cat says. Her voice catches in her throat. “Hoozit?”

“It’s me, Cat,” I say, confirming that the pay phone’s vid pickup is on.

Her eyes open a little further, maybe even enough to see out of them. “Mmm,” she repeats. Then, “Rick, ’choo?” I nod. She moves a little further from the phone pickup, and I see a little more of her, in better focus too. I guess she sees my grin, because she glances down and mutters, “Drek!” Then I see a pale-skinned arm reach for the phone. The screen’s filled with shifting colors and patterns again, and I chuckle. Some things never change, and one of those is that Cat Ashburton sleeps in the raw.

Less than a minute later the screen clears again. Cat’s got on a fluffy white bathrobe, and her hair looks a little less like a Medusa’s head. Her full lips are quirked up in an embarrassed smile, but her eyes are warning me not to push things too far.

That’s chill with me; I’m not in the headspace to play the double entendre game anyway. So, “Late shift?” I ask.

“Mmm, midnight to noon,” she tells me. Which means she’s been down less than two hours at the most. Make it an hour. I’ve got to keep that in mind. She might not be tracking as well as normally.

“Twelve hour shifts?”

She nods. “It’s new, some out-of-house consultants say it’ll improve efficiency.” Her voice tells me all I need to know about her opinion of that.

“Tough.”

She gives the kind of low, throaty chuckle I remember and still replay from time to time in my dreams. “Tough? They're ball-busters, cobber.” She pauses, and I see her eyes grow a little clearer. “What’s down, omae?” she asks, a hint of concern in her tone. “You’re not calling just to be sociable. Or you’d better not be . .

I smile, but I know the expression’s as tired as I am. “Not a social call,” I confirm, “I’m in some heavy drek here.”

Cat runs a hand through her hair, a gesture I remember as clearly as the chuckle. “Tell me.”

“I’m blown,” I admit. “Big-time, priyatel, bolshoi big."

"You got made by a random contact?”

I’m glad that’s her first assumption, not that I slotted up somewhere along the line. “Maybe, but I’m starting to doubt it.”

“Tell me,” she says again.

So I do. From the start, in all the gory detail. Frag, I know Drummond would have my nuts for cuff links if he knew, but Drummond can eat drek. It’s my hoop that’s out here hanging in the breeze, not his. Anyway, Cat’s Star. And our past history probably isn't in the Lone Star Seattle computer system—if anywhere, it’s back in the Milwaukee files. (Does it sound like I’m trying to rationalize something? You got that, omae.)

Cat’s a good listener, but she doesn’t let that get in the way of asking what she needs to refine her understanding or of firing out comments that force me to elaborate or look at things from a new angle. While I’m babbling, I also manage to cram the gyoza and yakisoba down my yam. By the time I’m reaching the end of the story, I see the Chinese waiter
doing the old approach-avoidance thing outside the phone
booth. So I tell Cat, “Hold one,” blank the screen, open the door, and shove the empty plates out into his hands. “One more plate of gyoza,” I tell him, both to get him out of my hair and because I’m still ready to eat my own flesh. As he races off, I bring Cat back from limbo.

When I'm done with the story, she doesn’t say anything right away. I know she’s sliding the pieces of the puzzle around, trying to get them to make different shapes. Cat’s good at that, always was. Eventually she shakes her head with a wry grin. “How come every time you get yourself into drek it’s up to your eyeballs?” she asks.

I shrug. “Talent, I guess.”

“Huh.” She pauses again. “You’re assuming the Tir corp and the penetration of the Star are connected?”

Again I shrug. “Yeah, of course . ..” And then I stop, because I see what she’s thinking. I’d automatically assumed there was a link. An unstated, unexamined assumption, based, I suppose, on the fact that Nemo and I recognized each other and that my cover was blown relatively soon after the delegation’s visit. But now that I think about it, there doesn’t have to be any link at all. Frag, this kind of drek is too much of a mind-bender for a simple soul like me.

I give Cat a slightly embarrassed smile. “Search me, Cat,” I say. “I don’t know anymore.”

She smiles back. “Zero it. I’m just playing with ideas.” Her face goes dead serious again. “What do you want me to do, omae? You're not calling just to bounce ideas off me?"

"You got that,” I tell her. “I need a nova-hot datasnoop. and one I can trust not to sell me out or frag me over."

"The Tir connection?”

“That’s it,” I tell her. “What’s the buzz on the Matrix? Which Tir corps are trying to increase their presence in the sprawl? And which ones have a rep for dealing with gangs and organized crime? And what’s their biz?”

Cat chuckles. Then, “You’re not asking much, are you, omae? But why not just let it slide?” she asks in a different tone. “You’ll be pulled in soon, and then you can do this kind of drek in sanction. Why push it now?”

Yeah, well that’s a fragging good question. All I can do is shrug. “’Cause my gut tells me to, Cat,” I say slowly. “That’s all I can tell you. Something’s telling me it’s important, and anyway ...” I trail off.

“And anyway,” she finishes for me, “it’s your case. Right?”

“I guess.” I glance away. Looking at it logically, it doesn’t make sense to do any digging now. Come into the light, then use everything the Star’s got to search for the connection.

Don’t waste time and effort that could better be invested in keeping my skin intact.

But just letting it ride goes against every fragging fiber of my personality (such as it is). I’ve always been the kind of slag who can’t leave stones unturned, who’s got to roll them over and poke around with a stick at the creepy-crawlies underneath.

No. That’s not the whole truth either, is it? I’ve got to have something—some gem of data, some lead, some answer—that I can bring in with me when Layton and company bring me into the light. Something I can hand over to them with a smug grin, something they didn’t know about. Something to prove I’m not just a frag-up who can’t keep his cover intact.

I derail that train of thought right there. Cat’s eyes are on me, and I get the uncomfortable feeling she can see the way my mind’s working. So I put on a solid, emotionless biz mask, and meet her gaze directly. “Can you do it. Cat? I know it’s against regs to use the Star’s databanks for private drek like this . . ” A pause as she thinks about it, then a warm smile spreads across her face. “I can do it,” she confirms, “and we both know how much you really care about the regs. Have you got a time-frame for this? And don’t tell me ‘soonest,’ or I'm going to hang up.”

I don’t answer immediately, my brain trying to come up with a guess about how long this could take her. After a second or two I shrug. “What can I tell you, Cat? Soon, priyatel.”

She nods. “I’ve got two days off, so I can push it after I get some sleep. Depending on just what’s going down, I might be able to give you something preliminary by . .. midnight, maybe?”

“That’s better than I expected,” I admit.

She shrugs that off with a smile. “I take it there isn’t a number where I can reach you,” she says dryly.

“Right in one,” I confirm. “I’ll call you.”

“I might not be in,” she reminds me. “I do have a life, omae.” She thinks for a moment, then, “I’ll log everything I find as I find it,” she says. “I’ll file it on my telecom under ‘Special Favors.’ How about that?” I nod. “I’ll encrypt and
lock it,” she goes on. “Give me a password, something
you’ll remember.”