Death Match - Diane Duane [64]
Darjan still didn’t look entirely reassured. “Well…it had better just go right this time, Heming. Otherwise your people and my people are the ones that will take the heat…and you and Iare inevitably going to get singed. If not burnt to a crisp.”
Heming shook his head. “Look, I understand your concern, but it’s handled. Come by this afternoon for the ‘training session’ and see.”
Darjan nodded, still frowning, and had another drink. Around the two of them, the shadows folded in close.
Two hours later Catie was still staring at the server software construct, from about halfway up its height—she had moved the “floor” up to look more closely at the way the solids symbolizing the images of the spat volume were hooked into the Caldera command substructure—and wondering, from the pain in her head, whether she was coming down with a migraine. Probably not, she thought. Mom said Gramma always said she felt sick before one. And I don’t feel sick…just stupid.
She rubbed her eyes and stood up for the first time in an hour or so. I guess I have to admit that Mark’s right. It’s not the imagery that’s at fault. I’ve looked at all the “canned” images in the routine, and all the code for the imagery that’s created “on the fly.” Nothing’s wrong with the code. The problem has to be somewhere else.
There’s nothing else I can do but start looking at all the rest of this to see if I can turn anything up.
But if the Net Force people haven’t seen anything…what in the world makes me think that I’m going to? Just more overconfidence. She blushed at the thought of what she was going to say to James Winters when they debriefed at the end of all this. “Sorry, I bit off more than I could chew, I don’t have a clue what’s going wrong.”…So much for my chances of ever actually getting a job working for this man, or his organization….
Catie stood there with her arms folded for a while, realizing that she might be looking at the beginning of the death of a dream. And what else do I do with my life if Net Force doesn’t want me? Catie thought, despondent. The time after high school, which had looked like a whole spectrum of new beginnings, now started to look like a dead end. I guess I can find some kind of entry-level job in advertising art, something simple, or—
Then Catie shook her head, feeling angry and helpless for the moment, but not quite beaten yet. The future would take care of itself, but right now there were other things to think about. For one thing, I’m getting moody…it’s blood sugar, probably. I need a break.
“Workspace management,” Catie said.
“Listening, visitor.”
“Hold this imagery in nonreadable memory for me, locked to my voiceprint. When I return, reset it.”
“Done.” The structure vanished.
Catie pushed the key into the darkness, and the gateway into her own space opened up again. She stepped through gratefully and waved it shut behind her. Immediately she felt a little more relaxed. All the while she’d been there she couldn’t get rid of the idea that someone from the ISF was going to pop out of nowhere and demand to know what she was doing there. Or—in her more paranoid moments—she imagined that one of the shadowy people who’d been tampering with the space in the first place might come across her. She shivered at the thought.
Catie chucked the key onto the Comfy Chair, and yawned. She was going to have to turn in soon, but meantime there were still problems to handle before bedtime. She was going to have to get some kind of report together for James Winters, regarding what George had told her. There were a few odds and ends of schoolwork that she still needed to handle…nothing serious, fortunately. And as she looked over at the chessboard, she realized that she’d promised George another move, and for all she knew, he was sitting up waiting for it, glad to have something to distract him from the tensions surrounding the “lottery”