AUGUST 3, 2033. EPHESUS, NORTHERN OREGON.
Promise Cotonou-Knight sat in the central conference room. Its long, low ceiling somehow flattened the light. The paneling was genuine oak, the chairs upholstered in synthetic leather. An undeniable aura of power emanated from the room, a smooth and consistent sense that things happened here, that the person who sat in that chair had the reins firmly in hand.
But now there were no councils deciding the planting or harvesting of trees, or bemoaning market prices, or negotiating water rights between the lumber and farming concerns. For now, Promise was alone with her mental dragons, making a decision that she alone could make.
Finally she spoke a name and number aloud.
A window opened in the air before her. A man’s head appeared, floating in the air above the table. The man had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, and intelligent eyes above a small sharp nose and a wide, sensuously Latin mouth. The entire effect was devastating.
“Hi there,” the head said in a voice that dripped sex appeal. “I’m not available right now, but I can promise you that I want to be in touch. If you’ll just leave your codes, and a message—”
Promise said, “Interrupt. Jeffry. This is Promise Cotonou. I need your help. Now.”
The head froze, and rippled with static. The come-hither voice disappeared. “Yes, I remember you,” the head said emotionlessly. “You would like to speak with Jeffry?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Is this a priority message?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is this business, or personal?”
Promise paused for a moment. “Both,” she said honestly.
“Thank you. I will try to reach him.”
There was a pause, during which recorded music played. The computer-generated love-god’s face smiled out at her with a dazed, meaningless smile.
The screen juddered, and Jeffry Barathy, aka Moonman, appeared. Jeffry Barathy was one of the heroes of the Virtual Underground: computer maven, phone phreak par excellence. He was also a disabled veteran of the first PanAfrican campaign. From the waist down he was stainless steel, hooked into one or another of his mechanized home transport systems. He had no facial fuzz at all, his skin was blistered pink as if with an eternal sunburn, and his hair was cut in a ragged mohawk.
“Promise. Lovechick. You look great. Listen—sorry about Mira. What a shit deal.” He seemed to be dressed in some sort of snakeskin suit-shirt, and wore shades now. Video images danced along the lower edge of the shades, and she figured that he must be monitoring a small empire’s worth of communication lines as they spoke.
“I’ve … been better. You’re doing well.”
“Well. Saving the president does wonders for your credit rating. And your rap sheet. Suddenly, I’m not underground anymore.”
“Doing well by doing good?”
“The very thing. What’s up?”
“Is this line secure?”
“Third-level merchant.” Suddenly, his face was serious. “Do we need more than that?”
“Let’s scramble.” The air before Promise clouded and filled with sparks, the visual field temporarily destroyed. Jeffry’s computer shook hands with Promise’s, and made the requisite connection. Then it cleared again.
“All right,” he said. “This will keep out everything but NipTech or maybe the NSA. Is that good enough?”
“It will have to do.”
“I heard a rumor that Aubry was on the move.”
How had he heard that? Promise was irritated and relieved at the same moment. “Yes. It’s true.”
“Does it have something to do with Mira’s death?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We were told that the murder was Phillipe Swarna’s way of saying hello.”
“Shit.” Jeffry threw some internal switch, becoming completely alert and aware. “Go on.”
“Aubry is … trying to protect us. I don’t want to say any more, even over these lines. Can I come to see you?”
“Day or night.”
“I’m on my way. About eight o’clock tomorrow evening be all right?”
“Only if you can’t get here sooner.”
Promise felt as if a stone had been rolled off her heart. “Thank you.”
The screen dimmed.
Promise turned the display off. She settled back into her chair, and rested her hand gently on her throat. Her pulse was erratic. She didn’t know if she had done the right thing, but she had done the only thing she could.