Global One customers.
A cavernous place reeking of freshly caught fish, the Hackers’ Outlet featured rack after rack ofmetal shelving loaded with computer parts and software programs in dozens of formats, some of the stuff dating back twenty years and much of it unlabeled. The clientele was an oddball assortment of hardcore hackers, geeky loners, and engineer types sporting wristphones and portable-interface wardrobes. Huge bins located just inside the entrance contained everything from cut-rate processor chips to previously used data visors and Network Positioning System–equipped motion-capture vests.
Harwood strode right up to the sales counter and extended his hand to a bald brown man the size of a small mountain.
“Hello, Menem.”
Menem—the Boruan Tech who Marz knew only as Tsunami—squinted for a moment; then his face lit up in joyful surprise. “Myst'ry Notes! Where you been, man? We haven't see you since… well, too long, anyway.” He turned and shouted to a group of his fellow employees who were busy in the rear of the warehouse unloading a truck. “Hey, Poonja! You're not going to believe who just showed up!”
Suddenly Strange was surrounded by a dozen men shaking his hand and slapping his back in welcome, all wanting to get a look at a real-live ghost. Whatever Tech had been feeling about Harwood on the drive into the city, he suddenly felt honored to know the man. It didn't hurt that Isis was looking at Tech as if he could provide her with backstage passes to a DisArray concert.
“The
Mystery Notes?” Isis whispered.
“Harwood Strange,” Tech said proudly before puzzlement erased his grin. “You've heard of him?”
“Well, of course, I've heard of him. I grew up hearing his name mentioned almost every day.”
Tech and Marz swapped confused looks. “But I thought—”
“What, that I was just some geekgirl who likes to roam the alleys wearing a sonic vest?” Isis interrupted.
“Not exactly,” Tech said. “But I didn't figure you for history-mad, either.”
Harwood must have overheard some of the exchange, because he excused himself from the group of swarthy men and ambled over.
“Boys, surely you recognize the name Whitehawk,” Harwood said.
“We do?” Tech said.
“The Whitehawk Processor. The Whitehawk Shunt. The Whitehawk Microdriver.” Harwood glanced at Isis. “Am I leaving anything out, Isis?”
“The Whitehawk Gravitan motion-capture vest.”
Tech and Marz were speechless for a moment.
“Your father is
that
Whitehawk?” Marz said at last.
“My uncle, actually,” Isis said. “But my dad's no slouch at the console, either.”
“He certainly isn't,” Harwood agreed. “Merlin Whitehawk is responsible for some of the finest cybersystems ever designed.”
“Jeez, no wonder you've flown from a VES 2800,” Marz said. “That was probably your starter system, right?”
Tech shook his head, as if to clear it. “I don't get it. What are you doing running with the Deceps when…?”
Isis’ blue eyes narrowed. “When I should be uptown hanging with private-school friends? I could ask you the same, Tech. I mean, today's not some school holiday, and here you are at the Hackers’ Outlet with Harwood Strange, of all people.”
Tech glared.
Isis blinked her baby blues. “The fact is, I live down here. My dad's something of a privacy nut, and he loves that the Deceps keep disabling the surveillance cams.”
Before Tech or Marz could reply, Harwood intervened.
“Marz, why don't you hunt around in the discount bins for the hardware we're going to need to repair Felix's cybersystem. In the meantime, Tech and I will see about procuring the soft.”
“I'm on it,” Marz said.
Harwood smiled and led Tech and Isis back to Menem.
“Tech, here,” Harwood said to the Boruan, “is my protégé.”
Tech's mouth fell open. Isis’ finger closed it for him.
“He and I are going to be doing some flying, and we were wondering if you might have anything special
A cavernous place reeking of freshly caught fish, the Hackers’ Outlet featured rack after rack ofmetal shelving loaded with computer parts and software programs in dozens of formats, some of the stuff dating back twenty years and much of it unlabeled. The clientele was an oddball assortment of hardcore hackers, geeky loners, and engineer types sporting wristphones and portable-interface wardrobes. Huge bins located just inside the entrance contained everything from cut-rate processor chips to previously used data visors and Network Positioning System–equipped motion-capture vests.
Harwood strode right up to the sales counter and extended his hand to a bald brown man the size of a small mountain.
“Hello, Menem.”
Menem—the Boruan Tech who Marz knew only as Tsunami—squinted for a moment; then his face lit up in joyful surprise. “Myst'ry Notes! Where you been, man? We haven't see you since… well, too long, anyway.” He turned and shouted to a group of his fellow employees who were busy in the rear of the warehouse unloading a truck. “Hey, Poonja! You're not going to believe who just showed up!”
Suddenly Strange was surrounded by a dozen men shaking his hand and slapping his back in welcome, all wanting to get a look at a real-live ghost. Whatever Tech had been feeling about Harwood on the drive into the city, he suddenly felt honored to know the man. It didn't hurt that Isis was looking at Tech as if he could provide her with backstage passes to a DisArray concert.
“The
Mystery Notes?” Isis whispered.
“Harwood Strange,” Tech said proudly before puzzlement erased his grin. “You've heard of him?”
“Well, of course, I've heard of him. I grew up hearing his name mentioned almost every day.”
Tech and Marz swapped confused looks. “But I thought—”
“What, that I was just some geekgirl who likes to roam the alleys wearing a sonic vest?” Isis interrupted.
“Not exactly,” Tech said. “But I didn't figure you for history-mad, either.”
Harwood must have overheard some of the exchange, because he excused himself from the group of swarthy men and ambled over.
“Boys, surely you recognize the name Whitehawk,” Harwood said.
“We do?” Tech said.
“The Whitehawk Processor. The Whitehawk Shunt. The Whitehawk Microdriver.” Harwood glanced at Isis. “Am I leaving anything out, Isis?”
“The Whitehawk Gravitan motion-capture vest.”
Tech and Marz were speechless for a moment.
“Your father is
that
Whitehawk?” Marz said at last.
“My uncle, actually,” Isis said. “But my dad's no slouch at the console, either.”
“He certainly isn't,” Harwood agreed. “Merlin Whitehawk is responsible for some of the finest cybersystems ever designed.”
“Jeez, no wonder you've flown from a VES 2800,” Marz said. “That was probably your starter system, right?”
Tech shook his head, as if to clear it. “I don't get it. What are you doing running with the Deceps when…?”
Isis’ blue eyes narrowed. “When I should be uptown hanging with private-school friends? I could ask you the same, Tech. I mean, today's not some school holiday, and here you are at the Hackers’ Outlet with Harwood Strange, of all people.”
Tech glared.
Isis blinked her baby blues. “The fact is, I live down here. My dad's something of a privacy nut, and he loves that the Deceps keep disabling the surveillance cams.”
Before Tech or Marz could reply, Harwood intervened.
“Marz, why don't you hunt around in the discount bins for the hardware we're going to need to repair Felix's cybersystem. In the meantime, Tech and I will see about procuring the soft.”
“I'm on it,” Marz said.
Harwood smiled and led Tech and Isis back to Menem.
“Tech, here,” Harwood said to the Boruan, “is my protégé.”
Tech's mouth fell open. Isis’ finger closed it for him.
“He and I are going to be doing some flying, and we were wondering if you might have anything special
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