Night Sessions, The by Ken MacLeod Page A

tram.
    Ferguson woke at 06:50. The alarm was set for 07:00. He remained in bed for nine more minutes. Isla shifted as he slid an arm around her but didn't wake up. At two minutes to seven Ferguson rolled over, sat up, reset the alarm to 08:00 for Isla, and got out of bed. He always enjoyed the early part of the day before he'd put in his contacts, but he couldn't resist catching the news. He showered with his phone clip tuned manually to the World Service. It wasone news source where he could be sure that the Murphy murder wasn't in the headlines. More problems with the soleta alignments. Another breakdown on the space elevator; cargoes for orbit delayed. The United Arab Republic had raised the price of electricity; the Shanghai and Tokyo markets had taken a small dip as a result.
    Ferguson put his contacts in after he'd shaved. Over breakfast he looked at the papers. His face was on the top pages of The Herald and the Scotsman —the latter under Tom Mackay's byline, treating it as a potential terrorism case but avoiding sensational speculation. The story was on the lower pages of the Guardian and The Times . The Telegraph ran a smug think-piece about how Scotland still relied on national police resources. Reminded, Ferguson invoked the PNAI. The overnight correction work had reset the system's suspicion parameters, but in the wrong direction. After requesting arrest warrants for everyone who had been on Easter Road for the past week, the PNAI was once more in the process of being talked down. The in-house nickname for the PNAI was Paranoia, partly because invoking it was like having in your head the voice of someone who had voices in their head, and partly because of the effect its mere existence had on the criminal fraternity and the general populace, who were apt to ascribe it far more nous than was its due. Ferguson sighed and checked the situation page. Lists of people who had visited Father Murphy were still being compiled and collated. The Kinky Kazakh's informant had come up with a short list of possible suspects who were involved in some weird goth sub-cult. The rest of Mukhtar's men had nothing to report. The two injured women were not expected to recover consciousness for some days, and might well have to be kept sedated in any case. The Catholic bishop, Dr. Curley, was scheduled to meet Ferguson at eleven. DCI McAuley wanted to see Ferguson late in the afternoon. Ferguson knew not to bother scheduling an appointment—McAuley would see him when McAuley wanted to.
    Ferguson stuck his cereal bowl in the sink, dashed upstairs to kiss Isla's forehead—she was still sound asleep—then headed for the tram stop. It was fifty metres from his front door and he had only a minute to wait, so he didn't bother with his umbrella. As the tram lurched and clanged off down the slope towards Tolcross, Ferguson clung to a strap and blinked up the website for Edinburgh University, then the sub-menu for New College.
    The college had once been the main theological training ground for ministers of the Church of Scotland and the Free Church. It still was, but there weren't many callings these days. The college had secularised with the times and now offered more degree courses in philosophy and in history thanin divinity. Professor Grace A. Mazvabo taught the history of the Church in Scotland, and specialised in and researched the post-Reformation period. Her c.v. listed titles of what seemed to Ferguson impenetrable obscurity and monumental triviality. Her brief bio gave her birthplace as Bulawayo, Zimbabawe. Her education from primary school onwards had been in Scotland, where her parents had moved as—Ferguson guessed from the dates—refugees, or asylum-seekers as they had then been known. Work for the Refugee Council was one of her voluntary occupations; another was listed as “deacon.” In conformity with the policy of official non-cognisance, the site didn't specify her Church.
    Ferguson got off the tram halfway along Princes