quiet go-to that’ll never be
traced. I hired a cowboy. I was the cut-out, so I took a percentage. Smith, he was
careful. He’d just had a very weird business experience and he’d come out on top,
but it didn’t add up. Who’d paid, out of that Swiss stash? Yakuza? No way. They got
a very rigid code covers situations like that, and they kill the receiver too, always.
Was it spook stuff? Smith didn’t think so. Spook biz has a vibe, you get so you can
smell it. Well, I had my cowboy buzz the news morgues until we found Tessier-Ashpool
in litigation. The case wasn’t anything, but we got the law firm. Then he did the
lawyer’s ice and we got the family address. Lotta good it did us.”
Case raised his eyebrows.
“Freeside,” the Finn said. “The spindle. Turns out they own damn near the whole thing.
The interesting stuff was the picture we got when the cowboy ran a regular go-to on
the news morgues and compiled a precis. Family organization. Corporate structure.
Supposedly you can buy into an S.A., but there hasn’t been a share of Tessier-Ashpool
traded on the open market in over a hundred years. On any market, as far as I know.
You’re looking at a very quiet, very eccentric first-generation high-orbit family,
run like a corporation. Big money, very shy of media. Lot of cloning. Orbital law’s
a lot softer on genetic engineering, right? And it’s hard to keep track of which generation,
or combination of generations, is running the show at a given time.”
“How’s that?” Molly asked.
“Got their own cryogenic setup. Even under orbital law, you’re legally dead for the
duration of a freeze. Looks like they trade off, thoughnobody’s seen the founding father in about thirty years. Founding momma, she died
in some lab accident. . . .”
“So what happened with your fence?”
“Nothing.” The Finn frowned. “Dropped it. We had a look at this fantastic tangle of
powers of attorney the T-A’s have, and that was it. Jimmy must’ve gotten into Straylight,
lifted the head, and Tessier-Ashpool sent their ninja after it. Smith decided to forget
about it. Maybe he was smart.” He looked at Molly. “The Villa Straylight. Tip of the
spindle. Strictly private.”
“You figure they own that ninja, Finn?” Molly asked.
“Smith thought so.”
“Expensive,” she said. “Wonder whatever happened to that little ninja, Finn?”
“Probably got him on ice. Thaw when needed.”
“Okay,” Case said, “we got Armitage getting his goodies off an AI named Wintermute.
Where’s that get us?”
“Nowhere yet,” Molly said, “but you got a little side gig now.” She drew a folded
scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. He opened it. Grid coordinates
and entry codes.
“Who’s this?”
“Armitage. Some data base of his. Bought it from the Moderns. Separate deal. Where
is it?”
“London,” Case said.
“Crack it.” She laughed. “Earn your keep for a change.”
C ASE WAITED FOR a trans-BAMA local on the crowded platform. Molly had gone back to the loft hours
ago, the Flatline’s construct in her green bag, and Case had been drinking steadily
ever since.
It was disturbing to think of the Flatline as a construct, a hardwired ROM cassette
replicating a dead man’s skills, obsessions, knee-jerk responses. . . . The local
came booming in along the black induction strip, fine grit sifting from cracks in
the tunnel’s ceiling. Case shuffled into the nearest door and watched the other passengers
as he rode. A pair of predatory-looking Christian Scientists were edging toward a
trio ofyoung office techs who wore idealized holographic vaginas on their wrists, wet pink
glittering under the harsh lighting. The techs licked their perfect lips nervously
and eyed the Christian Scientists from beneath lowered metallic lids. The girls looked
like tall, exotic grazing animals, swaying gracefully and unconsciously with
traced. I hired a cowboy. I was the cut-out, so I took a percentage. Smith, he was
careful. He’d just had a very weird business experience and he’d come out on top,
but it didn’t add up. Who’d paid, out of that Swiss stash? Yakuza? No way. They got
a very rigid code covers situations like that, and they kill the receiver too, always.
Was it spook stuff? Smith didn’t think so. Spook biz has a vibe, you get so you can
smell it. Well, I had my cowboy buzz the news morgues until we found Tessier-Ashpool
in litigation. The case wasn’t anything, but we got the law firm. Then he did the
lawyer’s ice and we got the family address. Lotta good it did us.”
Case raised his eyebrows.
“Freeside,” the Finn said. “The spindle. Turns out they own damn near the whole thing.
The interesting stuff was the picture we got when the cowboy ran a regular go-to on
the news morgues and compiled a precis. Family organization. Corporate structure.
Supposedly you can buy into an S.A., but there hasn’t been a share of Tessier-Ashpool
traded on the open market in over a hundred years. On any market, as far as I know.
You’re looking at a very quiet, very eccentric first-generation high-orbit family,
run like a corporation. Big money, very shy of media. Lot of cloning. Orbital law’s
a lot softer on genetic engineering, right? And it’s hard to keep track of which generation,
or combination of generations, is running the show at a given time.”
“How’s that?” Molly asked.
“Got their own cryogenic setup. Even under orbital law, you’re legally dead for the
duration of a freeze. Looks like they trade off, thoughnobody’s seen the founding father in about thirty years. Founding momma, she died
in some lab accident. . . .”
“So what happened with your fence?”
“Nothing.” The Finn frowned. “Dropped it. We had a look at this fantastic tangle of
powers of attorney the T-A’s have, and that was it. Jimmy must’ve gotten into Straylight,
lifted the head, and Tessier-Ashpool sent their ninja after it. Smith decided to forget
about it. Maybe he was smart.” He looked at Molly. “The Villa Straylight. Tip of the
spindle. Strictly private.”
“You figure they own that ninja, Finn?” Molly asked.
“Smith thought so.”
“Expensive,” she said. “Wonder whatever happened to that little ninja, Finn?”
“Probably got him on ice. Thaw when needed.”
“Okay,” Case said, “we got Armitage getting his goodies off an AI named Wintermute.
Where’s that get us?”
“Nowhere yet,” Molly said, “but you got a little side gig now.” She drew a folded
scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. He opened it. Grid coordinates
and entry codes.
“Who’s this?”
“Armitage. Some data base of his. Bought it from the Moderns. Separate deal. Where
is it?”
“London,” Case said.
“Crack it.” She laughed. “Earn your keep for a change.”
C ASE WAITED FOR a trans-BAMA local on the crowded platform. Molly had gone back to the loft hours
ago, the Flatline’s construct in her green bag, and Case had been drinking steadily
ever since.
It was disturbing to think of the Flatline as a construct, a hardwired ROM cassette
replicating a dead man’s skills, obsessions, knee-jerk responses. . . . The local
came booming in along the black induction strip, fine grit sifting from cracks in
the tunnel’s ceiling. Case shuffled into the nearest door and watched the other passengers
as he rode. A pair of predatory-looking Christian Scientists were edging toward a
trio ofyoung office techs who wore idealized holographic vaginas on their wrists, wet pink
glittering under the harsh lighting. The techs licked their perfect lips nervously
and eyed the Christian Scientists from beneath lowered metallic lids. The girls looked
like tall, exotic grazing animals, swaying gracefully and unconsciously with
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