Islands in the Net by Bruce Sterling

before, on television shows. TV thrillers were very big on the Vienna heat. Guys showing up, flicking hologram ID cards, overriding the programming on taxis and zooming around on manual, chasing baddies. They never forgot their video makeup, either. “I understand, Comrade Voroshilov.”
    Voroshilov lifted his head. “What an interesting smell. I do admire regional cooking.”
    Laura started. “Can I offer you something?”
    â€œSome mint tea would be very fine. Oh, just tea, if you have no mint.”
    â€œSomething for you, Captain Baxter?”
    Baxter glared. “Where was he killed?”
    â€œMy husband can help you with that.…” She touched her watchphone. “David?”
    David looked into the lobby through the dining room door. He saw the police, turned, and shot some quick, urgent border-Spanish over his shoulder at the staff. All Laura caught was los Rinches , the Rangers, but chairs scraped and Mrs. Delrosario appeared in a hurry.
    Laura made introductions. Voroshilov turned the intimidating videoglasses on everyone in turn. They were creepy-looking things—at a certain angle Laura could see a fine-etched golden spiderwebbing in the opaque lenses. No moving parts. David left with the Ranger.
    Laura found herself sipping tea with the Vienna spook in the downstairs office. “Remarkable decor,” Voroshilov observed, easing back in the vinyl car seat and shooting an inch of creamy-looking shirtcuff through his charcoal-gray coat sleeves.
    â€œThank you, Comrade.”
    Voroshilov lifted his videoglasses with a practiced gesture, favoring her with a long stare from velvety blue pop-star eyes. “You’re a Marxist?”
    â€œEconomic democrat,” Laura said. Voroshilov rolled his eyes in brief involuntary derision and set the glasses back onto his nose. “Have you heard from the F.A.C.T. before today?”
    â€œNever,” Laura said. “Never heard of them.”
    â€œThe statement makes no mention of the groups from Europe and Singapore.”
    â€œI don’t think they knew the others were here,” Laura said. “We—Rizome, I mean—we were very careful on security. Ms. Emerson, our security person, can tell you more about that.”
    Voroshilov smiled. “The American notion of ‘careful security.’ I’m touched.” He paused. “Why are you involved in this? It’s not your business.”
    â€œIt is now,” Laura said. “Who is this F.A.C.T.? Can you help us against them?”
    â€œThey don’t exist,” Voroshilov said. “Oh, they did once. Years ago. All those millions your American government spent, little groups here, little groups there. Ugly little spinoffs from the Old Cold Days. But F.A.C.T. is just a front now, a fairy story. F.A.C.T. is a mask the data havens hide behind to shoot at each other.” He made a pistol-pointing gesture. “Like the old Red Brigades, pop-pop-pop against NATO. Angolan UNITA, pop-pop-pop against the Cubans.” He smiled. “So here we are, yes, we sit in these nice chairs, we drink this nice tea like civilized people. Because you stepped into the rubbish left over because your grandfather didn’t like mine.”
    â€œWhat do you plan to do?”
    â€œI ought to scold you,” Voroshilov said. “But I’m going to scold your ex-CIA commissar upstairs. And my Ranger friend will scold too. My Ranger friend doesn’t care for the nasty mess you make of the nice reputation of Texas.” He flipped up the screen of his terminal and keyed in commands. “You saw the flying drone that did the shooting.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTell me if you see it here.”
    Images flashed by, four-second bursts of nicely shaded computer graphics. Stubby-winged aircraft with blind fuselages—no cockpit, they were radio controlled. Some were spattered in camouflage. Others showed ID numbers in stenciled