Death Match - Diane Duane [46]
Darjan was silent for a moment. “That might work,” he said. “As long as deinstallation procedures are included as well. Be a shame if someone went looking at their Net machines’ routines, after the fact, and found something out of the ordinary there.”
“Of course deinstalls will be put in at the same time,” Heming said. “There are ways to do such things that won’t alarm the usual antiviral and system-scan diagnostics. It’s all taken care of.”
“Then get on with it,” Darjan growled. “The first game is Thursday…and it had better go the way our principals want, if South Florida is involved…or they’re going to start taking your intervention, or lack of it, personally.”
This time Heming did gulp, whether he wanted to or not.
Monday afternoon Catie got in from school and went online again to clean up her virtmail, and to make another attempt to get in touch with Mark. It wasn’t like him to be incommunicado for so long, except for his actual school time. He seemed to practically live online, and Catie thought that the only reason he didn’t get in trouble over this was probably that his parents had to spend so much of their time online as well. She stood there in the Great Hall of her workspace and said, “Still nothing from him?”
“Nothing. Should we call the media and tell them the engagement’s off, boss?”
“Fff,” Catie said, a soft sound of annoyance, but it wasn’t serious—she had other things on her mind. I wonder if he’s had to go away suddenly with his dad or something. They do travel a lot—
She plopped down into her beat-up comfy chair and brooded for a few moments. Well, no point in worrying about this any more until I hear from him, she thought. If I—
“Incoming call,” said her workspace manager. “Requesting entry into the space, if you’re available.”
“Who is it?”
“James Winters.”
Catie’s mouth fell open, and she stood up hurriedly. Every member of the Net Force Explorers knew James Winters by sight. He was the group’s liaison to Net Force as a whole, and theoretically on call to anyone in the Explorers if they had some problem. That was the theory, anyway. Every Explorer also knew perfectly well that Winters had other work in Net Force which was far more important than his liaison work, and that it would be stupid to bother him with things that weren’t genuinely crucial. More than stupid: suicidal, at least to your employment prospects at Net Force, if you seriously intended ever to work there…for James Winters was unquestionably going to be one of the committee that decided whether you got hired, and if you had ever wasted his time on purpose, he would certainly remember.
When he came looking for you, however…all bets were off. “Let him right in,” Catie said.
A doorway formed in the air, dark at first, then revealing a rather standard-looking government office with afternoon sunlight coming into it through the stripe-shadows of Venetian blinds, and through the door stepped James Winters. About six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a Marine brush cut and a thoughtful, chiseled face, Winters stood there in conservative street clothes—cream short-sleeved shirt, dark trousers—and looked up and around him with recognition and (Catie thought) some pleasure. “Afternoon, Catie,” he said.
“Good afternoon!” she said, trying not to sound too strangled as she said it.
He turned around to look at the frescoed ceilings of the Great Hall, and the carved marble pillars. “Nice job. Did you do this from scratch?”
“Uh, yes,” Catie said. “It’s taken a while…but I see a lot of the real building.”
“Yes, your mother works there, doesn’t she,” Winters said, continuing to look upward.
“That’s right. Can I offer you a seat?” Catie said.
“Thanks, yes.”
“Space?”
“One chair coming up,” said her workspace management program, and produced an executive-style swivel chair off to one side of the “giant” chessboard. Winters went to it and sat down, glancing at the game as he did so. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all.”
“Good.