Queen of Nowhere
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Synopsis
The Sidhe look like us. They live amongst us. What they lack in numbers they make up with their fearsome mental abilities and the considerable physical resources at their disposal. And their biggest advantage? No one believes they exist. Almost no one. Bez, the best hacker in human-space, is fighting a secret war against them. Always one step ahead, never lingering in one place, she's determined to bring them down. But she can't expose the Hidden Empire alone and when the only ally she trusted fails her she must accept help from an unexpected quarter. Just one misstep, one incorrect assumption, and her Sidhe trap - her life's work - could end in vicious disaster. Worse, if Bez fails then humanity may never have another chance to win free of the manipulative and deadly Sidhe ...
Release date: January 3, 2013
Publisher: Gollancz
Print pages: 351
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Queen of Nowhere
Jaine Fenn
A WILFUL GHOST
If you’re listening to this, I’m dead.
You’ve had some dealings with me; you might even recognise the name ‘Orzabet’. That doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. What matters is the
information you’re getting now, and what you choose to do with it.
After three weeks of luxurious indolence, Bez was ready to become someone else. She had, however, intended to make the change on her own terms. Not like this.
The cops were waiting when she came out of customs, a man and a woman in silver-grey uniforms, looking faintly uncomfortable. The female officer said, ‘Are you Medame Oloria
Estrante?’
It was a doubly pointless question. For a start, the station authorities would not accost disembarking tourists randomly: they knew, or thought they knew, whom they were addressing. Secondly,
Oloria Estrante did not exist. But the fact that the cops used the name, and sounded convinced by it, went some way to allay Bez’s initial alarm. ‘I am,’ she said, in the tone of
perplexed irritation hub-law expected from the leisured classes. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’
The starliner’s other passengers were filing past, some of them looking back curiously. Bez made herself ignore the unwanted attention, at the same time clamping down on the urge to start
analysing possible causes of, and ways to deal with, this unexpected and unwelcome development. First priority: stay cool.
The female officer said, apologetically, ‘We’d like you to come with us.’
Bez had fired up her basic headware – the legal suite, as she thought of it – the moment she spotted the law. Her overlays confirmed the pair were what they appeared to be; or, at
least, their uniforms had genuine tags. That reduced, but did not eliminate, the chance of this being Enemy action. Bez favoured the two officers with a put-upon frown. ‘Where to? I was
hoping to get some shopping in during the stopover.’ She needed to keep conforming to their expectations.
‘Just to our offices, to answer a few questions.’
She sniffed. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then you had best lead on.’ She kept her tone faintly incredulous, like someone with nothing to fear, but the moisture had left her mouth and breathing evenly took some effort. At
times like this she wished she had mood-mods. Fortunately there weren’t many times like this.
As the cops fell into step either side of her she asked, ‘Can you at least give me some idea what this is about? I’m assuming there’s some mistake, which I’m happy to
help you clear up.’
‘I’m not sure it would be appropriate to say,’ said the male officer.
The female cop said, ‘I believe Medame Estrante has a right to know what the matter pertains to.’ The woman was one of those people who treated the conspicuously rich with deference,
regardless of how unpleasant they were in return. Bez had noticed such behaviour before when in this persona. ‘We’re investigating certain financial irregularities,’ the cop
explained.
Trying for an air of indignant confusion, Bez asked, ‘What sort of financial irregularities?’
‘The theft of a significant sum from a semi-dormant account.’
‘Theft?’ That kind of accusation warranted outright indignation. In some ways interstellar tourists were the easiest cultural group to impersonate; their disdain for those without
the excessive wealth required to travel the stars made them imperious and unreasonable, like holodrama caricatures of themselves. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘The account in question belongs to a Frer Yolson. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Yolson? Ah, of course. Not the Enemy after all, thank the void.
‘Medame Estrante?’
She started at the sudden interjection of the male cop, who had just laid a hand on her arm. She flinched, shaking him off. How long was it since anyone had deliberately touched her? ‘As I
thought, a simple mistake,’ she said, fighting the colour rising to her cheeks.
The female cop was staring at her. ‘Are you sure, medame?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. She needed more data, but she doubted these two knew much and she was far from confident of her ability to get info from them without arousing their
suspicions. ‘Shall we carry on and get this foolishness sorted out?’
‘As you wish.’ The female cop started walking again. Bez fell back into step and concentrated on controlling her physical reactions.
They came out on to the dockside proper.
Tarset was the least glamorous hub-point in human-space, and for most tourists it was no more than a brief stopover between more interesting destinations. The station’s dockside district
provided the usual services – bars, brothels and basic supplies – but the main concourse was a no-frills, three-storey strip-mall. The only concession to aesthetics was the faux starry
sky projected across the ceiling, barely visible through the holo-ads.
The irony was that she had not needed to disembark here at all. She could have checked her datadrop from her cabin on the starliner. But should anyone be taking an interest in her, they might
wonder why, when most of the other passengers made at least a cursory visit to the station, Medame Estrante did not; and yet, at the same time, she accessed a secure messaging service. Besides,
while genuine tourists were sniffy about the place, Bez had a certain fondness for Tarset. The station had originated as a mash-up of ancient colony ships, and the resulting state of constant
renovation left it full of usefully untended spaces, physical and virtual.
Should she access the drop now? It might contain intel indicating why the law were so eager to talk to her. No: her escort would notice if she tuned out, and Oloria Estrante was meant to be a
good little Salvatine, eschewing ungodly implants. Going virtual would blow her cover.
It was early evening so the mall was moderately crowded. She weighed up her chances if she made a run for it. Given how cooperative she had been so far, the law might not expect that. If she
could get into the service tunnels, it would just be a case of holing up for a while then re-emerging with a new identity. But first she would have to physically evade her escort, who outnumbered
her, were combat-trained and carried weapons. Far better to think her way out.
Their progress through the evening crowds was making heads turn. For someone who lived her life as a wilful ghost, such scrutiny was intensely uncomfortable. Bez read the current timestamp from
the chrono display in the top left of her visual cortex, taking it as a single integer and computing its square root. When she had regained her equilibrium, she began to consider how the current
predicament could have arisen.
The good news was that whatever the problem was, it did not appear to be related to the Estrante persona itself, merely to the associated funding. The underlying cause would probably be human
fallibility. It usually was.
The rich and reclusive ‘Frer Yolson’ was maintained by the agent she designated as Beta16, one of her oldest and most reliable financial agents. His databreaking skills were sound,
and he had no reason to betray her. At least, not willingly . . .
This situation could have been initiated by the Enemy after all. Why else would anyone in the hubs care about the financial affairs of a religious recluse in a distant spur-system? Even if these
were genuine cops acting on genuine orders, there was still no guarantee this really was just about the funding of a single persona. And once she was in custody, she would no longer be in control
of the situation. Should the real question be: from where did the orders to arrest her originate?
No. Bez applied what she thought of as ‘best-case principle’ to kill that line of reasoning. When paranoia became a way of life, the ability to selectively ignore negative
outcomes became a vital skill. It was either that or constantly be paralysed by fear and indecision. Once she knew more, she would re-assess.
The two officers stopped, so Bez did too. They had arrived at a bank of elevators.
The door opened to reveal a half-full car. At the very front, a young woman and young man were kissing passionately. Everyone paused, united in mild, indulgent embarrassment, waiting for the
pair to register that they were causing an obstruction.
If she had been by herself, Bez would have turned and strode off without looking back. But stuck between the two cops, she was no longer an observer but a participant, complicit in this minor
emotional drama. The lovers were so rapturous in their oblivion. So very happy. Her heart started to race with an emotion more complex than the fear she was already suppressing, and moisture
tickled the corners of her eyes.
The girl noticed what was happening first and broke away from the boy with a shy giggle.
Once upon a time, that was me. Then the Enemy forced my lover to walk into the sun, and everything fell apart.
The boy blushed and looked at his feet. The pair shuffled back to let Bez and her escort enter.
A barely audible sound whispered round the dozen others already in the car, somewhere between an approving sigh and stifled laughter. Events like this brightened a dull day for normal people.
Not for Bez. Already tense from maintaining the façade of the Estrante persona under close inspection, the sight of people experiencing the ordinary joy she’d had torn from her opened
up a hollow in her soul. She blinked hard but one stupid, weak tear still escaped down her cheek.
She stared at her chrono again, eyes unfocused from her surroundings. She must take this incident as a reminder of her resolve. People would always love and hate and hurt each other but if
– when – she succeeded in bringing down the Enemy, then such pain would occur on purely human terms.
By the time they reached their stop she had her emotional responses locked down. If the cops had noticed the stray tear, they gave no sign.
They exited the lift at one of the station’s admin floors. Tarset’s corridors ranged from the plain through the highly customised to the barely serviceable; in this section the
décor was well maintained if utilitarian. Bez called up a public map on a soft overlay and used it to track their progress, confirming that they were heading for Tarset’s main Legal
Enforcement offices.
Any residual thoughts of finding out more from her escort had been blown away by the sight of the lovers, which had left the shell between appearance and true self worn dangerously thin. Instead
she found herself recalling the two other times she’d had brushes with the law. The most recent, three years ago on Mercanth station, had been as a victim of crime: hers had been one of a
dozen rooms in a mid-level hotel targeted by thieves who had (inexpertly, in her opinion) hacked the locks. The cops had been mildly perplexed by her lack of possessions. The earlier and more
alarming occasion had been on Indri, when her illegal headware was newly installed and she had yet to hone her databreaking skills. It was nineteen years ago, but the memory still made her
uncomfortable. Her first ever attempt to ride a trickle-down, and she had screwed up. She got dumped and tagged trying to break through the firewall of a local banking node. Because the alert had
been raised before she had penetrated the bank’s system, she had got away with a fine.
As they rounded the final corner she shut down her headware. Police offices, like customs posts, had active scanners.
She held her head high as she walked through the open door into the hub-law offices, but she could not shake the feeling that she was walking into a trap that was about to snap shut behind
her.
PURE PROGRESSIONS
You’re receiving this databurst because I need you to act on what it contains. I’d say, ‘Don’t let me down’ but my feelings and
expectations are of no relevance. You’ve almost certainly never even met me.
Instead I’ll say this: Don’t let humanity down.
The doorway gave into a public reception area with seating provided for those who had business with the law. It was currently empty, save for a surly-looking pair of youths who
might equally well be victims or suspects. Beyond a half-frosted partition, police work was proceeding in an orderly fashion at desks and screens.
Bez hesitated for a moment in the lobby but her escort carried on, sweeping her forward with them. The female officer explained, ‘We’ll take you straight through and get you booked
in.’
‘Booked in?’ Although she had expected this, Bez did not have to fake her concern at the prospect.
‘It’s standard procedure. And if there is a misunderstanding, then the quicker we deal with it, the quicker you can get back to your ship.’
Bez could only agree with that sentiment.
Once on the far side of the partition, a man in a slightly different uniform approached them, carrying a slate. He addressed Bez with awkward deference. ‘Right, medame, if you would kindly
read the text and acknowledge just here—’ He turned the slate around for Bez to see.
Bez read the display carefully. It was a relatively straightforward statement of her rights and current status. She was being asked to agree to a short initial interview, after which hub-law
could, at their discretion, hold her for another eight hours without charge. They could ask further questions during this time, aided by lie-detection technology, in which case she was entitled to
a defence advocate. She remembered something similar from her first brush with the law, though in that case they had charged her at the first interview, then released her promptly once she paid the
fine. Not seeing any other choice, she thumbed the base of the screen, tensing slightly as she did so, even though the Estrante ID itself was sound.
When she handed back the slate, the booking officer murmured, ‘If you’ll follow me, someone will see you now,’ almost as though this was an appointment she had made for
herself.
They left the original escort behind and went up a side corridor to a plain door, which opened automatically.
Bez tried not to be dismayed at the grim-looking room beyond, which contained only a thick-topped desk and two chairs. The woman standing by the chair on the far side had a uniform featuring
more silver than any Bez had seen so far today. However, she smiled and greeted Bez politely. ‘Come in, Medame Estrante.’
Bez made herself walk over to the table. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘And you are?’
‘First Detective Hylam. Do sit down.’
As Bez seated herself she saw one piece of silver that did not denote rank: the detective wore a discreet lapel pin in the shape of a loop-headed cross. That could explain what was happening
here. The hub authorities got hundreds of requests from planetary law-enforcement agencies seeking fugitives who had fled their jurisdiction, but the hubs were only obliged to act on the most
serious; other cases were at the discretion of the local ranking officers. If Hylam was a Horusi, this could be simple religious solidarity. Salvatines were the exception on the hubs, and this
particular believer might be taking an interest because the alleged crime involved a follower of her own subsect. Plus, from the look of the office outside, the law was having a slow day. Bez tried
not to let her relief show.
Detective Hylam sat down. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time than absolutely necessary. Could you confirm that Frer Yolson of the Eagle’s Retreat Preceptory House on
Sestine-Beta is your second cousin three times removed?’
Bez smiled at the detective. ‘Actually, he’s my third cousin twice removed.’
‘Yet he sends you an allowance. Quite a big one.’
Bez dropped her gaze, reminding herself that this woman thought they held shared religious beliefs. ‘I know, and I bless Mother Isis for his generosity.’
‘I’m sure you do. I’m still a little unclear on why Frer Yolson, who appears to have access to considerable funds, does this.’
‘He won the planetary lottery, which prompted him to take his final vows. So my late father told me anyway.’ Treat this as a test you know the answers to; give those answers
clearly and firmly. ‘As for his generous donations . . . as I’m sure you know, an accident left me without immediate family.’
The detective nodded, a little impatiently.
‘Although I’ve never met Frer Yolson, I think there may have been some unresolved family issues for which he is now making amends. Also, I get the impression he hopes I will use his
gifts to live a good life.’ She shrugged in what she hoped was a self-deprecating fashion. ‘I suspect my choices disappoint him, may Osiris forgive me.’
‘I doubt that, on both counts.’ The detective leaned forward and looked Bez full in the face. ‘Given Frer Yolson doesn’t exist.’
Surprise was an allowable reaction. Even so Bez felt her face fall, the careful mask slipping. ‘I’m shocked to hear that,’ she managed to croak.
Detective Hylam narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you?’
Bez said nothing. This was no mere game of data; the woman across the table from her was used to dealing with liars. Despite giving all the right answers, Bez had aroused her suspicions. The
detective continued, ‘I appreciate your cooperation so far, however, I’d like to keep you in for further questioning.’
‘But my starliner leaves in less than four hours!’
‘In that case, perhaps you would prefer we institute full interrogation protocols and conduct a more thorough interview immediately?’ With one finger she gave the table, with its
hidden tech, a meaningful tap.
Bez saw the trap now it was too late. Agree, and even if she managed to spin a convincing lie – which she doubted she could – the detection equipment would reveal her attempts at
deception. Refuse, and she was admitting she had something to hide. All she could think of was to play for time. ‘I believe I have the right to legal representation during a full
interview?’
Hylam looked nonplussed. ‘You do.’
‘And I can choose my lawyer from anyone currently on the law-office roster?’
‘My, you did read your waiver carefully,’ the First Detective said frostily.
‘Then I would like the chance to make my selection before we proceed.’ This was much worse than the first time she had fallen foul of the law all those years ago. Back then, she had
just begun her life’s work, and had had relatively little to lose. Now she sat at the heart of a vast hyperweb. If the authorities pulled on this one loose thread, everything could start to
unravel. Nearly two decades of building up contacts, gathering evidence, preparing to strike: to fail now, when she was finally getting close, was unthinkable.
As the detective muttered into her wrist-com, Bez thought, If only you knew why I’m doing all this . . . But she didn’t know. No one did. And they mustn’t, not yet.
A few moments later the door opened to admit the booking officer. ‘Follow me please, medame.’ The man looked disappointed, as though he had expected better from someone of her
status.
‘Where to?’ Bez said, fighting the sensation that events were slipping beyond her control.
Detective Hylam said, ‘Somewhere you can make your selection in peace. I’ll be seeing you later, Medame Estrante.’
The booking officer led her down another similar corridor, though these doors had numbers on. He stopped outside the third door on the right, numbered ‘6’, and passed Bez a spare
slate. Bez took the proffered device and went through the door. It closed promptly behind her. She found herself in a room with a bed, table, chair and sanitary unit, plus a drinks dispenser and
basic ents unit built into one wall. No exits, unsurprisingly. Perhaps the station had other less comfortable holding cells for the sort of criminals unlikely to sue for wrongful arrest.
She sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over the slate to wake it. As well as the list of duty lawyers, the simple menu included an option to access the cell’s ents unit. Bez dialled
up some plainsong, choosing a recording by Elarn Reen. The late Medame Reen was not Bez’s favourite but she thought the choice apt.
For the benefit of any surveillance, she began to scroll casually through the info on the slate. At the same time, her mind raced.
She had to get out of here before this went any further and that would require hacking the law. Her mission rarely pitted her directly against law-enforcement organisations’ virtual
security, which tended to be as tight as that of banks, and a lot more dangerous. At least she was inside their firewall. She activated her headware, initiating her full hacking suite.
While the tech came online she queried the availability of the duty lawyers. Most of them were free now, or would be within the hour. When she found one whose current availability was listed as
‘3 hours+’ she selected him. Three hours was before the starliner’s departure, so when the law opened the door to an empty cell the cops would most likely look for her on the
liner. The standard shift change was in just over two hours, and ideally she would prefer different front-office personnel when she left. So, two to three hours was her window of opportunity. She
could work with that.
She put down the slate, sat back and closed her eyes, watching her chrono count out two minutes while she let the pure progressions of the music centre her. Then she brought her deep overlays
online.
The ents unit glowed in her enhanced vision, but nothing else changed. She counted out another thirty seconds just in case, then tuned fully into the local virtuality. The room faded to grey
obscurity.
The stats associated with the ents unit confirmed her assumption that it hid a camera. Just basic vid with minimal shielding, by the look of it. The camera might have hidden defences, in which
case any attempt to hack the device could trigger an alarm. But that was a lot of trouble to go to unless Detective Hylam already knew about her headware and was waiting for her to actively condemn
herself by using it. This was unlikely: as well as the legal issues surrounding entrapment, Salvatines weren’t renowned for being tech-savvy. If they suspected she was a databreaker, someone
would have put an inhibitor cap on her before they allowed her inside their firewall.
She moved her virtual presence across the room, waiting for the subliminal connection as her headware engaged with the camera. The link was weak but that was a good sign: she would expect
nothing more from a dumb remote.
Beyond the camera she sensed the local virtuality, the salt-sweet taste of the world of logic and data, a world that made more sense than the real ever did. From the safety of the camera she
accessed the stats associated with her cell. She made sure she understood the immediate set-up then moved out cautiously, initially only as far as the camera in the next cell. The occupant was a
local man in for possible assault. The cell beside that was empty. The one beyond held a woman, but she was too old, in on extended detention for drugs-related charges. In the fourth cell she found
another man. The fifth was empty. The person in the sixth was the right gender and age, and the timing was suitable, but when Bez tapped into the camera’s vid feed for that cell, she saw that
the woman was too fat. She might suffice if there was no one else. The seventh and eighth cells were empty. The ninth held another man.
She accessed the local registry, which confirmed that there were only twelve cells in this block. Had she known this beforehand, she might not have been so confident of her plan. Still, there
was no going back now.
Ten was empty. Eleven, however, was as near perfect as she was going to get. Arrested for unlicensed sexual commerce, and ten years younger than Bez, but there was a good match on height and
build. Only twenty-three minutes until this woman was due to be released, though, which was before the shift change. Was it worth the risk? When a peek into the final cell showed it to be empty,
Bez decided it was; with only twelve cells to choose from and no guarantee of any new occupants arriving in time, she might not get another chance. Bez still took care to alter the readouts on the
unfortunate prostitute’s cell. She could not risk failure – and further incrimination – at this stage. Then she drew her awareness back along the line of grey boxes with their
clusters of near-identical glowing camera icons.
Reaching the camera on her own cell, she accessed the device’s buffer, where she employed one of the standard tricks in any databreaker’s repertoire. For the next three hours, the
footage the camera relayed would bear a remarkable resemblance to the period Bez had spent sitting quietly on the bed before going virtual.
She paused, checked the stats on her own cell, and then blinked herself back into the real.
Sixteen minutes to go. This was going to be tight.
The first five minutes involved more sitting still while she triggered, and then endured, the sensations of crawling skin and itchy scalp that accompanied any physical transformation. She picked
the pre-programmed setting closest to the prostitute’s colouration (pale skin; straight auburn hair; blue eyes), adjusting the hair’s length and adding the copper and crimson highlights
on the fly.
She opened her eyes, blinking repeatedly to clear them. They would water for a while yet. Raising her hand, she saw her skin was already several shades lighter. She ran her fingers through her
hair, pulling out the tight curls Madame Estrante had worn; the action also served to lengthen the synthetic strands. The prostitute wore her hair up, so Bez needed to consider that too. But first
she had to do something about her clothes.
She unpinned the pointless half-circle hat her tourist disguise had demanded, and shrugged out of the equally flamboyant embroidered coat. She turned the coat inside out then rubbed it, and the
hat, across the seat and along the floor by the bed. She wrapped the hat in the coat and stuffed the bundle behind the pillow on the bed. When the items were found, it would be possible to extract
samples of her genetic material from among the others she had just picked up, but even if someone went to such trouble, they wouldn’t get a positive trace. Only criminals were subject to
detailed genetic profiling and Bez had no criminal record in any of her incarnations.
Now for the blouse. She pulled it over her head and used the hatpin to rip the fabric of one sleeve. If this were a holodrama, she thought, then I would be using that pin as a weapon,
or have some hidden gadget in it. The blouse tore easily, as befitted expensive and delicate fabric. She didn’t have time to hack the blouse’s tag so she used the pin to rip it out
of the collar.
One of the detached blouse sleeves made a passable hairband, once she’d teased the final kinks out of her hair. Nothing she could do about the lack of cosmetics. She put the blouse back
on, knotting it high under her bust to expose her stomach. Her trousers were too smart, but once she had torn out the tag, she tucked the ruined waistband inside to expose a bit more belly, which
went some way towards the right image. The shoes were fine: she avoided tagged footwear, to allow for situations requiring a quick change without full props.
All done, with one minute and thirty-four seconds to spare. She shut down her headware.
If the original booking officer was the one that came for her, she was lost; but she had noticed a number of administrators in the front office, and in her admittedly limited experience of such
places, roles were strictly demarcated: the booker-in did not also book out.
Time was up but the door remained closed. She counted out a minute. Two. Three. At times like this she almost wished there were a deity to pray to. Finally, what felt like twenty but was less
than six minutes after she had assumed her disguise, the door opened.
The man who stood there was a stranger. Bez exhaled and gave him a genuine smile. The admin officer smiled back, his gaze flicking down to her bare midriff.
Bez forced herself to ignore his expression, reminding herself she was meant to be a sassy streetwalker. ‘About time!’ she said, starting across the cell.
The man was looking at her face now. He appeared puzzled. Was it the lack of makeup?
‘You all right there, “Toni”?’ He glanced at his slate as he spoke. Toni was the girl’s work-name.
Bez put a hand to her wet cheek. Damn: thanks to the tears from the eye-colour change, she looked like she had been crying. Was he sympathetic? He sounded like he was mocking her. She settled on
saying, not untruthfully, ‘I’ve had better days.’
‘Yeah, well, perhaps you should think about getting licensed? The law’s here for your protection too, you know.’ He held out his slate. She thumbed it to acknowledge her
release. She had only changed the ID, charge sheet and timer on her cell, not the associated biometrics. Nothing beeped. He stepped back and said, ‘I’ll show you out.’
A few people looked up as she walked through the office, trying, not altogether successfully, to keep a provocative swing in her step. When Detective Hylam emerged from a si
If you’re listening to this, I’m dead.
You’ve had some dealings with me; you might even recognise the name ‘Orzabet’. That doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. What matters is the
information you’re getting now, and what you choose to do with it.
After three weeks of luxurious indolence, Bez was ready to become someone else. She had, however, intended to make the change on her own terms. Not like this.
The cops were waiting when she came out of customs, a man and a woman in silver-grey uniforms, looking faintly uncomfortable. The female officer said, ‘Are you Medame Oloria
Estrante?’
It was a doubly pointless question. For a start, the station authorities would not accost disembarking tourists randomly: they knew, or thought they knew, whom they were addressing. Secondly,
Oloria Estrante did not exist. But the fact that the cops used the name, and sounded convinced by it, went some way to allay Bez’s initial alarm. ‘I am,’ she said, in the tone of
perplexed irritation hub-law expected from the leisured classes. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’
The starliner’s other passengers were filing past, some of them looking back curiously. Bez made herself ignore the unwanted attention, at the same time clamping down on the urge to start
analysing possible causes of, and ways to deal with, this unexpected and unwelcome development. First priority: stay cool.
The female officer said, apologetically, ‘We’d like you to come with us.’
Bez had fired up her basic headware – the legal suite, as she thought of it – the moment she spotted the law. Her overlays confirmed the pair were what they appeared to be; or, at
least, their uniforms had genuine tags. That reduced, but did not eliminate, the chance of this being Enemy action. Bez favoured the two officers with a put-upon frown. ‘Where to? I was
hoping to get some shopping in during the stopover.’ She needed to keep conforming to their expectations.
‘Just to our offices, to answer a few questions.’
She sniffed. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then you had best lead on.’ She kept her tone faintly incredulous, like someone with nothing to fear, but the moisture had left her mouth and breathing evenly took some effort. At
times like this she wished she had mood-mods. Fortunately there weren’t many times like this.
As the cops fell into step either side of her she asked, ‘Can you at least give me some idea what this is about? I’m assuming there’s some mistake, which I’m happy to
help you clear up.’
‘I’m not sure it would be appropriate to say,’ said the male officer.
The female cop said, ‘I believe Medame Estrante has a right to know what the matter pertains to.’ The woman was one of those people who treated the conspicuously rich with deference,
regardless of how unpleasant they were in return. Bez had noticed such behaviour before when in this persona. ‘We’re investigating certain financial irregularities,’ the cop
explained.
Trying for an air of indignant confusion, Bez asked, ‘What sort of financial irregularities?’
‘The theft of a significant sum from a semi-dormant account.’
‘Theft?’ That kind of accusation warranted outright indignation. In some ways interstellar tourists were the easiest cultural group to impersonate; their disdain for those without
the excessive wealth required to travel the stars made them imperious and unreasonable, like holodrama caricatures of themselves. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘The account in question belongs to a Frer Yolson. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Yolson? Ah, of course. Not the Enemy after all, thank the void.
‘Medame Estrante?’
She started at the sudden interjection of the male cop, who had just laid a hand on her arm. She flinched, shaking him off. How long was it since anyone had deliberately touched her? ‘As I
thought, a simple mistake,’ she said, fighting the colour rising to her cheeks.
The female cop was staring at her. ‘Are you sure, medame?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. She needed more data, but she doubted these two knew much and she was far from confident of her ability to get info from them without arousing their
suspicions. ‘Shall we carry on and get this foolishness sorted out?’
‘As you wish.’ The female cop started walking again. Bez fell back into step and concentrated on controlling her physical reactions.
They came out on to the dockside proper.
Tarset was the least glamorous hub-point in human-space, and for most tourists it was no more than a brief stopover between more interesting destinations. The station’s dockside district
provided the usual services – bars, brothels and basic supplies – but the main concourse was a no-frills, three-storey strip-mall. The only concession to aesthetics was the faux starry
sky projected across the ceiling, barely visible through the holo-ads.
The irony was that she had not needed to disembark here at all. She could have checked her datadrop from her cabin on the starliner. But should anyone be taking an interest in her, they might
wonder why, when most of the other passengers made at least a cursory visit to the station, Medame Estrante did not; and yet, at the same time, she accessed a secure messaging service. Besides,
while genuine tourists were sniffy about the place, Bez had a certain fondness for Tarset. The station had originated as a mash-up of ancient colony ships, and the resulting state of constant
renovation left it full of usefully untended spaces, physical and virtual.
Should she access the drop now? It might contain intel indicating why the law were so eager to talk to her. No: her escort would notice if she tuned out, and Oloria Estrante was meant to be a
good little Salvatine, eschewing ungodly implants. Going virtual would blow her cover.
It was early evening so the mall was moderately crowded. She weighed up her chances if she made a run for it. Given how cooperative she had been so far, the law might not expect that. If she
could get into the service tunnels, it would just be a case of holing up for a while then re-emerging with a new identity. But first she would have to physically evade her escort, who outnumbered
her, were combat-trained and carried weapons. Far better to think her way out.
Their progress through the evening crowds was making heads turn. For someone who lived her life as a wilful ghost, such scrutiny was intensely uncomfortable. Bez read the current timestamp from
the chrono display in the top left of her visual cortex, taking it as a single integer and computing its square root. When she had regained her equilibrium, she began to consider how the current
predicament could have arisen.
The good news was that whatever the problem was, it did not appear to be related to the Estrante persona itself, merely to the associated funding. The underlying cause would probably be human
fallibility. It usually was.
The rich and reclusive ‘Frer Yolson’ was maintained by the agent she designated as Beta16, one of her oldest and most reliable financial agents. His databreaking skills were sound,
and he had no reason to betray her. At least, not willingly . . .
This situation could have been initiated by the Enemy after all. Why else would anyone in the hubs care about the financial affairs of a religious recluse in a distant spur-system? Even if these
were genuine cops acting on genuine orders, there was still no guarantee this really was just about the funding of a single persona. And once she was in custody, she would no longer be in control
of the situation. Should the real question be: from where did the orders to arrest her originate?
No. Bez applied what she thought of as ‘best-case principle’ to kill that line of reasoning. When paranoia became a way of life, the ability to selectively ignore negative
outcomes became a vital skill. It was either that or constantly be paralysed by fear and indecision. Once she knew more, she would re-assess.
The two officers stopped, so Bez did too. They had arrived at a bank of elevators.
The door opened to reveal a half-full car. At the very front, a young woman and young man were kissing passionately. Everyone paused, united in mild, indulgent embarrassment, waiting for the
pair to register that they were causing an obstruction.
If she had been by herself, Bez would have turned and strode off without looking back. But stuck between the two cops, she was no longer an observer but a participant, complicit in this minor
emotional drama. The lovers were so rapturous in their oblivion. So very happy. Her heart started to race with an emotion more complex than the fear she was already suppressing, and moisture
tickled the corners of her eyes.
The girl noticed what was happening first and broke away from the boy with a shy giggle.
Once upon a time, that was me. Then the Enemy forced my lover to walk into the sun, and everything fell apart.
The boy blushed and looked at his feet. The pair shuffled back to let Bez and her escort enter.
A barely audible sound whispered round the dozen others already in the car, somewhere between an approving sigh and stifled laughter. Events like this brightened a dull day for normal people.
Not for Bez. Already tense from maintaining the façade of the Estrante persona under close inspection, the sight of people experiencing the ordinary joy she’d had torn from her opened
up a hollow in her soul. She blinked hard but one stupid, weak tear still escaped down her cheek.
She stared at her chrono again, eyes unfocused from her surroundings. She must take this incident as a reminder of her resolve. People would always love and hate and hurt each other but if
– when – she succeeded in bringing down the Enemy, then such pain would occur on purely human terms.
By the time they reached their stop she had her emotional responses locked down. If the cops had noticed the stray tear, they gave no sign.
They exited the lift at one of the station’s admin floors. Tarset’s corridors ranged from the plain through the highly customised to the barely serviceable; in this section the
décor was well maintained if utilitarian. Bez called up a public map on a soft overlay and used it to track their progress, confirming that they were heading for Tarset’s main Legal
Enforcement offices.
Any residual thoughts of finding out more from her escort had been blown away by the sight of the lovers, which had left the shell between appearance and true self worn dangerously thin. Instead
she found herself recalling the two other times she’d had brushes with the law. The most recent, three years ago on Mercanth station, had been as a victim of crime: hers had been one of a
dozen rooms in a mid-level hotel targeted by thieves who had (inexpertly, in her opinion) hacked the locks. The cops had been mildly perplexed by her lack of possessions. The earlier and more
alarming occasion had been on Indri, when her illegal headware was newly installed and she had yet to hone her databreaking skills. It was nineteen years ago, but the memory still made her
uncomfortable. Her first ever attempt to ride a trickle-down, and she had screwed up. She got dumped and tagged trying to break through the firewall of a local banking node. Because the alert had
been raised before she had penetrated the bank’s system, she had got away with a fine.
As they rounded the final corner she shut down her headware. Police offices, like customs posts, had active scanners.
She held her head high as she walked through the open door into the hub-law offices, but she could not shake the feeling that she was walking into a trap that was about to snap shut behind
her.
PURE PROGRESSIONS
You’re receiving this databurst because I need you to act on what it contains. I’d say, ‘Don’t let me down’ but my feelings and
expectations are of no relevance. You’ve almost certainly never even met me.
Instead I’ll say this: Don’t let humanity down.
The doorway gave into a public reception area with seating provided for those who had business with the law. It was currently empty, save for a surly-looking pair of youths who
might equally well be victims or suspects. Beyond a half-frosted partition, police work was proceeding in an orderly fashion at desks and screens.
Bez hesitated for a moment in the lobby but her escort carried on, sweeping her forward with them. The female officer explained, ‘We’ll take you straight through and get you booked
in.’
‘Booked in?’ Although she had expected this, Bez did not have to fake her concern at the prospect.
‘It’s standard procedure. And if there is a misunderstanding, then the quicker we deal with it, the quicker you can get back to your ship.’
Bez could only agree with that sentiment.
Once on the far side of the partition, a man in a slightly different uniform approached them, carrying a slate. He addressed Bez with awkward deference. ‘Right, medame, if you would kindly
read the text and acknowledge just here—’ He turned the slate around for Bez to see.
Bez read the display carefully. It was a relatively straightforward statement of her rights and current status. She was being asked to agree to a short initial interview, after which hub-law
could, at their discretion, hold her for another eight hours without charge. They could ask further questions during this time, aided by lie-detection technology, in which case she was entitled to
a defence advocate. She remembered something similar from her first brush with the law, though in that case they had charged her at the first interview, then released her promptly once she paid the
fine. Not seeing any other choice, she thumbed the base of the screen, tensing slightly as she did so, even though the Estrante ID itself was sound.
When she handed back the slate, the booking officer murmured, ‘If you’ll follow me, someone will see you now,’ almost as though this was an appointment she had made for
herself.
They left the original escort behind and went up a side corridor to a plain door, which opened automatically.
Bez tried not to be dismayed at the grim-looking room beyond, which contained only a thick-topped desk and two chairs. The woman standing by the chair on the far side had a uniform featuring
more silver than any Bez had seen so far today. However, she smiled and greeted Bez politely. ‘Come in, Medame Estrante.’
Bez made herself walk over to the table. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘And you are?’
‘First Detective Hylam. Do sit down.’
As Bez seated herself she saw one piece of silver that did not denote rank: the detective wore a discreet lapel pin in the shape of a loop-headed cross. That could explain what was happening
here. The hub authorities got hundreds of requests from planetary law-enforcement agencies seeking fugitives who had fled their jurisdiction, but the hubs were only obliged to act on the most
serious; other cases were at the discretion of the local ranking officers. If Hylam was a Horusi, this could be simple religious solidarity. Salvatines were the exception on the hubs, and this
particular believer might be taking an interest because the alleged crime involved a follower of her own subsect. Plus, from the look of the office outside, the law was having a slow day. Bez tried
not to let her relief show.
Detective Hylam sat down. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time than absolutely necessary. Could you confirm that Frer Yolson of the Eagle’s Retreat Preceptory House on
Sestine-Beta is your second cousin three times removed?’
Bez smiled at the detective. ‘Actually, he’s my third cousin twice removed.’
‘Yet he sends you an allowance. Quite a big one.’
Bez dropped her gaze, reminding herself that this woman thought they held shared religious beliefs. ‘I know, and I bless Mother Isis for his generosity.’
‘I’m sure you do. I’m still a little unclear on why Frer Yolson, who appears to have access to considerable funds, does this.’
‘He won the planetary lottery, which prompted him to take his final vows. So my late father told me anyway.’ Treat this as a test you know the answers to; give those answers
clearly and firmly. ‘As for his generous donations . . . as I’m sure you know, an accident left me without immediate family.’
The detective nodded, a little impatiently.
‘Although I’ve never met Frer Yolson, I think there may have been some unresolved family issues for which he is now making amends. Also, I get the impression he hopes I will use his
gifts to live a good life.’ She shrugged in what she hoped was a self-deprecating fashion. ‘I suspect my choices disappoint him, may Osiris forgive me.’
‘I doubt that, on both counts.’ The detective leaned forward and looked Bez full in the face. ‘Given Frer Yolson doesn’t exist.’
Surprise was an allowable reaction. Even so Bez felt her face fall, the careful mask slipping. ‘I’m shocked to hear that,’ she managed to croak.
Detective Hylam narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you?’
Bez said nothing. This was no mere game of data; the woman across the table from her was used to dealing with liars. Despite giving all the right answers, Bez had aroused her suspicions. The
detective continued, ‘I appreciate your cooperation so far, however, I’d like to keep you in for further questioning.’
‘But my starliner leaves in less than four hours!’
‘In that case, perhaps you would prefer we institute full interrogation protocols and conduct a more thorough interview immediately?’ With one finger she gave the table, with its
hidden tech, a meaningful tap.
Bez saw the trap now it was too late. Agree, and even if she managed to spin a convincing lie – which she doubted she could – the detection equipment would reveal her attempts at
deception. Refuse, and she was admitting she had something to hide. All she could think of was to play for time. ‘I believe I have the right to legal representation during a full
interview?’
Hylam looked nonplussed. ‘You do.’
‘And I can choose my lawyer from anyone currently on the law-office roster?’
‘My, you did read your waiver carefully,’ the First Detective said frostily.
‘Then I would like the chance to make my selection before we proceed.’ This was much worse than the first time she had fallen foul of the law all those years ago. Back then, she had
just begun her life’s work, and had had relatively little to lose. Now she sat at the heart of a vast hyperweb. If the authorities pulled on this one loose thread, everything could start to
unravel. Nearly two decades of building up contacts, gathering evidence, preparing to strike: to fail now, when she was finally getting close, was unthinkable.
As the detective muttered into her wrist-com, Bez thought, If only you knew why I’m doing all this . . . But she didn’t know. No one did. And they mustn’t, not yet.
A few moments later the door opened to admit the booking officer. ‘Follow me please, medame.’ The man looked disappointed, as though he had expected better from someone of her
status.
‘Where to?’ Bez said, fighting the sensation that events were slipping beyond her control.
Detective Hylam said, ‘Somewhere you can make your selection in peace. I’ll be seeing you later, Medame Estrante.’
The booking officer led her down another similar corridor, though these doors had numbers on. He stopped outside the third door on the right, numbered ‘6’, and passed Bez a spare
slate. Bez took the proffered device and went through the door. It closed promptly behind her. She found herself in a room with a bed, table, chair and sanitary unit, plus a drinks dispenser and
basic ents unit built into one wall. No exits, unsurprisingly. Perhaps the station had other less comfortable holding cells for the sort of criminals unlikely to sue for wrongful arrest.
She sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over the slate to wake it. As well as the list of duty lawyers, the simple menu included an option to access the cell’s ents unit. Bez dialled
up some plainsong, choosing a recording by Elarn Reen. The late Medame Reen was not Bez’s favourite but she thought the choice apt.
For the benefit of any surveillance, she began to scroll casually through the info on the slate. At the same time, her mind raced.
She had to get out of here before this went any further and that would require hacking the law. Her mission rarely pitted her directly against law-enforcement organisations’ virtual
security, which tended to be as tight as that of banks, and a lot more dangerous. At least she was inside their firewall. She activated her headware, initiating her full hacking suite.
While the tech came online she queried the availability of the duty lawyers. Most of them were free now, or would be within the hour. When she found one whose current availability was listed as
‘3 hours+’ she selected him. Three hours was before the starliner’s departure, so when the law opened the door to an empty cell the cops would most likely look for her on the
liner. The standard shift change was in just over two hours, and ideally she would prefer different front-office personnel when she left. So, two to three hours was her window of opportunity. She
could work with that.
She put down the slate, sat back and closed her eyes, watching her chrono count out two minutes while she let the pure progressions of the music centre her. Then she brought her deep overlays
online.
The ents unit glowed in her enhanced vision, but nothing else changed. She counted out another thirty seconds just in case, then tuned fully into the local virtuality. The room faded to grey
obscurity.
The stats associated with the ents unit confirmed her assumption that it hid a camera. Just basic vid with minimal shielding, by the look of it. The camera might have hidden defences, in which
case any attempt to hack the device could trigger an alarm. But that was a lot of trouble to go to unless Detective Hylam already knew about her headware and was waiting for her to actively condemn
herself by using it. This was unlikely: as well as the legal issues surrounding entrapment, Salvatines weren’t renowned for being tech-savvy. If they suspected she was a databreaker, someone
would have put an inhibitor cap on her before they allowed her inside their firewall.
She moved her virtual presence across the room, waiting for the subliminal connection as her headware engaged with the camera. The link was weak but that was a good sign: she would expect
nothing more from a dumb remote.
Beyond the camera she sensed the local virtuality, the salt-sweet taste of the world of logic and data, a world that made more sense than the real ever did. From the safety of the camera she
accessed the stats associated with her cell. She made sure she understood the immediate set-up then moved out cautiously, initially only as far as the camera in the next cell. The occupant was a
local man in for possible assault. The cell beside that was empty. The one beyond held a woman, but she was too old, in on extended detention for drugs-related charges. In the fourth cell she found
another man. The fifth was empty. The person in the sixth was the right gender and age, and the timing was suitable, but when Bez tapped into the camera’s vid feed for that cell, she saw that
the woman was too fat. She might suffice if there was no one else. The seventh and eighth cells were empty. The ninth held another man.
She accessed the local registry, which confirmed that there were only twelve cells in this block. Had she known this beforehand, she might not have been so confident of her plan. Still, there
was no going back now.
Ten was empty. Eleven, however, was as near perfect as she was going to get. Arrested for unlicensed sexual commerce, and ten years younger than Bez, but there was a good match on height and
build. Only twenty-three minutes until this woman was due to be released, though, which was before the shift change. Was it worth the risk? When a peek into the final cell showed it to be empty,
Bez decided it was; with only twelve cells to choose from and no guarantee of any new occupants arriving in time, she might not get another chance. Bez still took care to alter the readouts on the
unfortunate prostitute’s cell. She could not risk failure – and further incrimination – at this stage. Then she drew her awareness back along the line of grey boxes with their
clusters of near-identical glowing camera icons.
Reaching the camera on her own cell, she accessed the device’s buffer, where she employed one of the standard tricks in any databreaker’s repertoire. For the next three hours, the
footage the camera relayed would bear a remarkable resemblance to the period Bez had spent sitting quietly on the bed before going virtual.
She paused, checked the stats on her own cell, and then blinked herself back into the real.
Sixteen minutes to go. This was going to be tight.
The first five minutes involved more sitting still while she triggered, and then endured, the sensations of crawling skin and itchy scalp that accompanied any physical transformation. She picked
the pre-programmed setting closest to the prostitute’s colouration (pale skin; straight auburn hair; blue eyes), adjusting the hair’s length and adding the copper and crimson highlights
on the fly.
She opened her eyes, blinking repeatedly to clear them. They would water for a while yet. Raising her hand, she saw her skin was already several shades lighter. She ran her fingers through her
hair, pulling out the tight curls Madame Estrante had worn; the action also served to lengthen the synthetic strands. The prostitute wore her hair up, so Bez needed to consider that too. But first
she had to do something about her clothes.
She unpinned the pointless half-circle hat her tourist disguise had demanded, and shrugged out of the equally flamboyant embroidered coat. She turned the coat inside out then rubbed it, and the
hat, across the seat and along the floor by the bed. She wrapped the hat in the coat and stuffed the bundle behind the pillow on the bed. When the items were found, it would be possible to extract
samples of her genetic material from among the others she had just picked up, but even if someone went to such trouble, they wouldn’t get a positive trace. Only criminals were subject to
detailed genetic profiling and Bez had no criminal record in any of her incarnations.
Now for the blouse. She pulled it over her head and used the hatpin to rip the fabric of one sleeve. If this were a holodrama, she thought, then I would be using that pin as a weapon,
or have some hidden gadget in it. The blouse tore easily, as befitted expensive and delicate fabric. She didn’t have time to hack the blouse’s tag so she used the pin to rip it out
of the collar.
One of the detached blouse sleeves made a passable hairband, once she’d teased the final kinks out of her hair. Nothing she could do about the lack of cosmetics. She put the blouse back
on, knotting it high under her bust to expose her stomach. Her trousers were too smart, but once she had torn out the tag, she tucked the ruined waistband inside to expose a bit more belly, which
went some way towards the right image. The shoes were fine: she avoided tagged footwear, to allow for situations requiring a quick change without full props.
All done, with one minute and thirty-four seconds to spare. She shut down her headware.
If the original booking officer was the one that came for her, she was lost; but she had noticed a number of administrators in the front office, and in her admittedly limited experience of such
places, roles were strictly demarcated: the booker-in did not also book out.
Time was up but the door remained closed. She counted out a minute. Two. Three. At times like this she almost wished there were a deity to pray to. Finally, what felt like twenty but was less
than six minutes after she had assumed her disguise, the door opened.
The man who stood there was a stranger. Bez exhaled and gave him a genuine smile. The admin officer smiled back, his gaze flicking down to her bare midriff.
Bez forced herself to ignore his expression, reminding herself she was meant to be a sassy streetwalker. ‘About time!’ she said, starting across the cell.
The man was looking at her face now. He appeared puzzled. Was it the lack of makeup?
‘You all right there, “Toni”?’ He glanced at his slate as he spoke. Toni was the girl’s work-name.
Bez put a hand to her wet cheek. Damn: thanks to the tears from the eye-colour change, she looked like she had been crying. Was he sympathetic? He sounded like he was mocking her. She settled on
saying, not untruthfully, ‘I’ve had better days.’
‘Yeah, well, perhaps you should think about getting licensed? The law’s here for your protection too, you know.’ He held out his slate. She thumbed it to acknowledge her
release. She had only changed the ID, charge sheet and timer on her cell, not the associated biometrics. Nothing beeped. He stepped back and said, ‘I’ll show you out.’
A few people looked up as she walked through the office, trying, not altogether successfully, to keep a provocative swing in her step. When Detective Hylam emerged from a si
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