Rogue(108)

As tourists, that wasn’t as much of an issue, but we’d be noticeable if we didn’t seem to be connected. With earbuds in and constantly chattering about stupid crap, no one would see us.

Just before we popped the door, she asked, “Could this be a setup?”

“Yes, but we have to try,” I said. I was sure I could handle any public attack, and I’d try not to get private if it was avoidable.

I have no idea how people live in those boxes. We walked out of the hotel, stepped onto a slideway, and then followed it past several clubs, as it escalated down a level, around one side and past shops and a playground, then stepped off and took a lateral between blocks.

It was pretty much impossible to draw a mental map, but I snapped images with my phone at each change so I’d be able to retrace. I also tapped in exits and slides for getaway. I was likely to need them.

The convention was two hundred meters up, fifty levels approximately, though “level” varies greatly inside these rat mazes. It was in a hall taking up three verticals, spread along corridors and with other events in between. We got in a line meters long and waited for admission while scanning the area for threats. The registrars and desk rolled along past us, with program loads and passes.

The guy ahead of Silver joked, “What if I spoof the pass?”

The registrar was probably a hired model and stared as if the man were stupid. “We expect that in this crowd. There’ll be enough compensation in downloads.” I’m sure she’d heard the same joke ten times already.

Silver swiped a cash card for both of us, took two passes, and thanked her. She moved on.

Events were well under way, and there were a lot of people here. We walked down the corridor, into the main hall, and there were a hundred displays or more for various methods and approaches to massaging information from people, accessing their comms “with consent” to pimp stuff to them, or worse, use them as distribution nodes to promote to their friends. Everything here was technically legal even under the restrictive laws of Earth, and just proved that supply and demand will survive any idealistic attempt to manage people. Signs insisted that no illicit access would be tolerated, subject to removal of pass and ejection, legal action, etc. They were probably honest about that, for liability reasons, but I had no reason to believe the clients would abide by it more than they had to.

Silver had DNA gear out. We just might succeed in locating him in this crush, and if so, I was confident of my ability to get in close and go for a bare-handed kill.

She said, “Minor trace, all over.”

“Schedule?” I asked.

“Principal is speaking in thirty minutes.”

“IDs?”

“He’s still in this area but not where a camera can monitor. They don’t seem to have them in here.”

Some guy overheard us, quiet as we were, and said, “Yeah, privacy. They don’t allow cams in events. Just at the exits and entrances. You need to find someone? I can get a page in.”

I said, “Thanks, but we don’t need a page. We’ll find him.”

“Isn’t his phone live?”

“Yeah, we got it. Thanks,” I assured him, then turned my back and shut him physically out while we relocated. He took the hint.

I continued to Silver, “We watch, I get close to the stage, you stay near the access door. Best we can do.”

“Okay,” she agreed, sounding casual. Then she spoke into her dead mic, “Yeah, the event’s great. All kinds of goober stuff for promo.”

I followed her lead. “Nance has samples, you should try to make it for tomorrow at least.”

We slid through the crowd like fish through weeds. It’s a practiced skill, but more art than training. You just look for any opening and ease into it, and people move around you. For Earth, I do recommend keeping your phone in hand and any valuables in inside, chest pockets. It hurt my arm with every jostle, but I was healing.

There were numerous exhibits and I would have appreciated checking them out as much as I hate these dogfuckers. There were parallels between our trades, much as I hated to admit it.

I wormed my way toward the front. It would be a bitch to get on stage from here, but I assumed I’d have to. The MC said, “—our generation’s greatest market promoter, Jason ‘The Hit Man’ Groom.”

There was light applause, Groom ran from the wings and stepped up on the riser.

Then he burst into flame.

I recognized the weapon at once. A hypergolic base with a flammable powder, sprayed right up from under the riser. Groom screamed and dove, creditably fast. He was cooked badly, though. I could smell the fried bologna stench from here.