Glasshouse - Charles Stross [161]
I nod vigorously. “I can’t go to Church without them, it wouldn’t be decent.” Decent is one of those keywords the watchers monitor. Gloves aren’t actually a dress code infraction, but they’re a good excuse.
“Okay, I suppose I’ll have to come with you,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man facing the airlock. “We need to leave soon, don’t we?”
“Yes, I’d better get my bag,” I say.
“I have a new waistcoat to wear.”
I raise an eyebrow. His clothing sense is even more artificial than my own. “It’s upstairs,” he explains. For a moment I think he’s going to say something more, something compromising, but he manages to bottle it up in time. My stomach squirms queasily. “Take care, darling.”
“Nothing can possibly go wrong,” he says with studied irony. He rises and heads for the staircase to our bedroom. (Our bedroom. No more lonely nights.) My heart seems to catch an extra beat. Then it’s time to clear up the detritus, put the plates in the dishwasher, and get my shoes on.
When Sam comes downstairs, he’s dressed for Church—with a many-pocketed vest under his suit jacket, and, in his hand, the briefcase we packed yesterday. “Let’s, uh, go,” he says, and casts me a wan grin.
“Yup,” I say, then check the clock and pick up my extra-large handbag. “Let’s roll.”
We arrive at the library around ten o’clock, and I let us in. The door to the cellar is already open. I reach into my bag as I go down the steps, conscious that if someone’s blown the operation, then the bad guys could be waiting for me. But when I get to the bottom I find Janis.
“Hi, Janis,” I say slightly nervously.
“Hi yourself.” She lowers her gun. “Just checking.”
“Indeed. Sam? Come on down.” I turn back to Janis. “Still waiting for Greg, Martin, and Liz.”
“Right.” Janis gestures at a pile of grayish plastic bricks sitting on one of the chairs. “Sam? I think it’ll work better if you carry these.”
“Sure.” Sam ambles over and picks up a brick. Squeezes it experimentally, then sniffs it. “Hmm, smells like success. Detonators?”
“On the sofa.” I spot the stack of spare magazines and take a couple, then check they’re loaded properly. “Where are the cogsets?” I ask.
“Coming.” Janis waves at the A-gate. “We need to synchronize our watches, too.”
“Okay.” This isn’t going to work too well without headsets and cognitive radio transceivers, but they’re last on our list of items to assemble because they’re too obvious. They’re easier to sabotage than metal plumbing and chemical explosives, and a lot likelier to tripwire the alarms in the A-gate than a collection of antiques. If the radios don’t work, our fallback is crude—mechanical wristwatches and a prearranged time to start shooting.
Sam stuffs bricks of Composition-C into his vest pockets, squeezing them to fit. The vest bulges around his waist, as if he’s suddenly put on weight, and when he pulls his jacket on it hangs open. What he’s doing reminds me of something I once knew, something alarming, but I can’t quite remember what. So I shake my head and go upstairs to wait behind the front desk.
A few minutes later Martin and Liz arrive together. I send them down to the basement. I’m getting worried when Greg appears. We’re running short of time. It’s 10:42 and the meeting is due to start in just a kilosec or so. “What kept you?” I ask.
“I feel rough,” he admits. I think he’s been drinking. “Couldn’t sleep properly. Let’s get this over with, huh?”
“Yeah.” I point him at the cellar. “Gang’s down there.”
T minus ten minutes. The door opens, and Janis comes out. “Okay, I’m off to start the show in the auditorium,” she tells me. A fey smile. “Good luck.”
“You too.” She leans forward, and I hug her briefly, then she’s off, walking down the library path toward City Hall.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask.
“Oh, he had something extra to do down there,” Liz says, a trifle sniffily. “Last-minute nerves.” A moment later he comes up the stairs. “Come on, Sam, want to miss the show?”
I open my mouth. “Time to move!”
Fragments of memory converge on a point in time:
Five of us, three males and two females,