Idolon (25 page)

Marta dug ragged nails into her palms. But whatever grip she'd had on herself, or the situation, slipped through her fingers. She touched a hand to her abdomen. "And the babies? What's going to happen to them?"

"I don't know, yet. Church leaders are waiting for an image to be born. A source image that will provide a new face for humanity."

"Divine, you mean?"

"In origin, yes. Supposedly, only those people who are waring this face when they die will be recognized by God and admitted—"

A thunderclap shuddered through the walls. The floor shook, pitching Marta into the table.

Earthquake,
she thought, righting herself.

Jeremy reached for the door. "What the—?"

Muffled screams, shrill with panic, filtered into the room as the trembling ceased and the rumble quieted. Jeremy yanked open the door. Tendrils of  smoke wafted into the room.

Not an earthquake... an explosion. She followed Jeremy into the banquet-staging room, then the pandemonium of the main restaurant.

Marta glanced frantically around. Dust burned her throat. "Nadice!" she shouted.

She couldn't see her. There was too much confusion. But she could feel her, shared blood and adrenaline searing her veins.

A second thunderclap—directly above. The acoustic ceiling tile disintegrated in a furnace blast of heat that flensed the air in her lungs and slammed her to the floor.

Pelayo met Lagrante at the Bent Note, a jazz club in Palo Alto. He found the bootleg artiste in a recessed booth, sipping a glass of Nouvelle-Orleans pale green absinthe and tapping a Hongtasan to the sensuous beat of Uzbek slazz.

Pelayo settled into the black vinyl seat across the table from Lagrante. Light sifted down from a diffuse LED fixture, dusting the amber-tinted veneer on the tabletop. Old sheet music, torn notebook pages, and reproduction mimeograph flyers papered the walls, held in place with bent staples and tarnished thumbtacks.

"What do you think?" Lagrante said. He pinched the Chinese cigarette between the tips of three fingers, holding it with the surgical precision of an orchestra conductor.

Pelayo couldn't tell if Lagrante was asking about the club, the music, or the vintage 1940s zoot suit he was waring. The suit was bold and baggy. It sported a wide-shouldered yellow jacket with exaggerated lapels, silver high-waist pants, cinched tight at the ankles and held up with suspenders, and a white shirt with a black-and-red-patterned tie that looked like it had been lifted from a painting by Miro or Kandinsky. A matching borsalino-style hat, yellow with a black band, hung from a brass hook mounted on the side of the seat back. Lagrante had philmed himself with a composite image constructed from various photographs and posters of jazz musicians scattered around his office. The collage blended Thelonius Monk's goatee and meditative spirituality with Charles Mingus's placid contemplation and Charlie Parker's mustache and verve.

"What do I think about what?" Pelayo said. Trying to read the expression behind Lagrante's heavy black spex was pointless. The lenses were dark enough to watch a solar eclipse.

"You look kind of pale," Lagrante said.

Pelayo stared at the stage, and the smoke curdling in the air under the stage lights. "Lot on my mind."

"I can tell." Lagrante tapped his cigarette on the edge of a black ashtray. Fresh ashes had dulled the lustrous sheen of the onyx, silting it with gray. After a couple of rhythmic taps, Lagrante reached into the breast pocket of his casually overwrought jacket, took out an ampoule, and placed it on the table between them.

Pelayo eyed the ampoule. "What's this?"

Lagrante put the cigarette between dry lips and inhaled. "Like I said. I found someone can do the job. But you gotta take that ahead of time. Preps the 'skin for the rip."

"So we've got an arrangement."

"Depends." Lagrante exhaled, his smoke-laden breath smelling of mint and warm licorice.

"On what?"

"Whether you agree to the terms."

Pelayo placed a hand over the ampoule. His fingers trembled, and he curled the ampoule into his palm. "How much we talking?"

"I don't know yet."

"You always know."

 Lagrante made a face. "Not this time. I don't even know what my percentage is going to be."

"Bullshit."

"Like I said before, the platform is totally new. We're operating in terra incognita here. I don't know what my man's going to want to do the job— how much I'm going to have to front. I won't know until he gets into it, sees what's involved. Bottom line is I'm taking a risk."

Pelayo unfolded his hand, letting the ampoule rattle to the table. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't think it was worth it."

"I'm here because I think there's a possibility that it might be worth it. There's a big difference. A possibility is still a gamble."

Pelayo waved a hand. "Whatever. Either way, that tells me other people will be interested." He started to slide out of the booth, leaving the ampoule on the table.

Lagrante leaned across the table and restrained Pelayo by the wrist. "No need to start actin' an ass on me."

"Ditto."

Lagrante grinned, then relaxed his grip and smoothed the creased cuff of Pelayo's jacket.

Pelayo stared at the wrinkles left by Lagrante's grip. The rip artist was desperate. He'd cut a deal with whoever was going to help him rip the 'skin. He couldn't back out. Couldn't afford to have Pelayo back out.

Lagrante balanced the Hongtasan on the edge of the ashtray. "Buy you a drink? The bar here's top-notch."

"How 'bout some of that 'sinthe." It couldn't hurt to press his luck, see where it led.

Lagrante's smile retracted fractionally. "Sure. What the hell?" He opened a d-splay on one palm and placed the order with a magnanimous tap dance of fingers.

Pelayo slid back onto the seat. Elbows propped on the tabletop, he retrieved the ampoule and held it up to the light.

"I'd be careful with that, I were you," Lagrante said.

"You wouldn't have arranged to meet here if you knew the cops were casing the place."

"Not what I'm talkin' 'bout."

Pelayo sat up. Had Lagrante picked up information on the street about the clinical trial? "I'm listening."

"A lot of philmheads are gettin' uptight about new 'skin—especially street 'skin—with so many women gettin' knocked-up sick."

Pelayo absently turned the ampoule from side to side. "What do you know about that?"

"For one thing, it's bad for business."

"Yeah? Why's that?" Pelayo unsealed the ampoule and inserted the nozzle into his left nostril.

"The newzines. They're phlogging all kinds of rumors about corrupt philm and tainted downloads. Some women out there are sayin' they been raped. Focusing all kindsa unwanted attention on cracked ware. They download a ripped copy of F8, get pregnant, and natch assume the ware was what hulled them. Is that some fucked-up cause and effect, or what?"

Pelayo pinched the ampoule and snorted. Whatever it was hit him hard and fast—snapped his head back inside his skull. He smelled burnt lilac, tasted cold metal. "What else you heard?"

"Word I'm getting—from hardcore hackers and philmheads—it's nothing like that. The general consensus seems to be the TVs are responsible."

"How?"

"Some kind of ad hoc programmable matter. Recombinant."

"Ad hoc how?"

Lagrante massaged his temples. "The way it was explained to me, there's whole libraries out there, databases full of digitized nucleotide sequences. We're talkin' everything from the geneprints of murder victims and dead celebs, to the DiNA bar codes for every extinct insect in the last two hundred years. And from time to time shit leaks out. Goes from being digital to analog. Virtual to real."

"They say why the TVs are downloading this stuff?"

"Because the muhfuckers are crazy. Out there. Knowmsayin?"

"Still, there must be a reason."

Lagrante probed his teeth with the tip of his tongue. "If there
is,
my sources don't have a line on it."

Or weren't telling him. "This skintech of yours," Pelayo said. "He gonna meet us here?"

"Not 'skin, specifically. Programmable matter."

"There a difference?"

"Used to be. Before there was a philm industry, like the one we've got now, and I was just getting started in this business."

"When was that?"

Lagrante's expression lost some of its focus. "Back in the early days, when 'skin was a dopant layer that confined electrons with electric fields. Electrostatic quantum dots."

"Artificial atoms," Pelayo said.

Lagrante nodded. "Now the term applies to fullerenes and nanotube threads that can be woven together into a bulk material. But originally it was a thin coating, used strictly for military apps. Everything from camouflage and stealth to field-mutable armor. It didn't go civilian—architecture, fashion, entertainment—until later. Took years to figure out how to power the 'skin using biolectrics. How to wire wetronics into the graphene and integrate the nanoware."

Lagrante's crunk 'tude had slipped away, peeling from his speech and mannerisms like dead skin. The Lagrante he knew was an act. Underneath the lifestyle the rip artist clothed himself in was another life and person Pelayo had never seen, had never imagined existed.

Pelayo's absinthe arrived, served with a sugar cube on a perforated spoon. He poured water over the sugar into the absinthe and took an exploratory sip. The herbal liqueur numbed the back of his tongue.

His gaze wandered to the audience, seated at little round tables in front of the stage and at booths similar to theirs around the perimeter of the room. It was a lively crowd. Lots of zoot suits and colorful women in lime green, canary yellow, and hibiscus dresses. The style was Harlem Renaissance, full of the glowing optimism and cosmopolitan joi de vivre painted by Archibald J. Motley, Jr., or the splashy, soulful exuberance expressed by Ivey Hayes.

He looked down at the d-splay on the Hamilton, checking the eyefeed from the ad mask. Nothing new. Atossa was still maneuvering the mask along the Kevlex mesh fence, looking for a clear view of the service door entrance to the roof.

Pelayo turned back to Lagrante.

"... two kinds of cages," the rip artist was saying, off on a riff. "The one people try to put you in, and the one you put yourself in. The choice is yours. You just got to decide which one you're most comfortable with."

Pelayo nodded. "So who put you in a cage?"

Lagrante made a dry spitting sound. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been stringing me along."

"How do you figure?"

Pelayo held up the ampoule. "If you weren't, you would've gotten this to me a lot sooner."

Lagrante shook his head, then forced an unreadable smile. "You got it all wrong, man."

"Bullshit. You didn't want me to go to someone else. So you fed me a line. Lied about not being able to rip a copy of the 'skin."

"That ain't how it is. While I was waitin' to hear back, I was working the hack. I got to you soon as I could."

Slowly, Pelayo leaned forward. "Hear back from who? Who else are you talkin' to?"

Lagrante's amusement, if that's what it was, faded. Finally, the rip artist spread his hands in concession. "This dude contacted me a few weeks ago. Told me about the new 'skin. Said I might see you."

"What kind of dude?"

Lagrante fingered the stubble on his chin. "Corporate exec. Upper management. You know the type. Said he'd pay me to wait on ripping and downloading the 'skin. He wanted it bootlegged, but at a certain time."

"So you agreed. Figured it couldn't hurt to hold off. You'd make a little extra on the side, in addition to whatever you pulled in from the hack."

Lagrante shrugged.

"In the meantime, you didn't want me going anywhere," Pelayo said. "You were working a deal and put me off till it was done."

Lagrante's nostrils flared, then relaxed. "Maybe I had a deal. Maybe I didn't. I wasn't sure. If I couldn't rip the 'skin in time, I didn't know what this guy would do. I had to assume all bets were off."

Pelayo massaged the back of his neck. "Exec with who?"

"Who do you think?"

"IBT." It had to be. They were the only ones who knew he was testing the 'skin.

Lagrante nodded. "Might be someone else in bed with them. I'm not sure on that yet."

Pelayo sniffed. "So you're playing them, the same way you played me."

"And you aren't? Takin' ware from Uri with one hand, and sellin' it to me with the other?" Lagrante loosened the double Windsor on his tie. "If I were you, I'd be a lot more worried about how someone at IBT knew you'd be comin' to me or another bootlegger. Think about it. Someone high up at IBT knows you're sellin' crack ware to the street, and they're letting it happen. Why?"

Pelayo eased back in his seat. "Because they want the 'skin ripped," he said.

"And they don't want anyone to know about it," Lagrante said. "Not you. Not the cops. Not the competition."

"Why?"

Lagrante lifted his hat from the knurled hook and fitted it onto his head. "Market share. That's what it's all about. Generating demand and—"

A flash detonated on Pelayo's d-splay, followed by a roar, then nothing, not even static.

"Shit!" Atossa said.

"What?" The face of the Hamilton was blank. Pelayo clapped his hands over his ears, shutting out the music, the rattle of glass, silverware, and laughter. "Atossa, what's going on?"

"... plosion," Atossa said. "Someone just set off a bomb."