Rule 34 - Charles Stross [46]
The world is taking on a rosy glow of bonhomie when Fi—or should that be Dr. Macintosh?—returns to the party. As it happens, you’ve just turned away from your poet to refill your glass, so she heads straight towards you. She’s got a small, dog-eared paperback in one hand. “Sorry, ran into a spot of bother in the kitchen,” she says unapologetically. “Listen, you’re obviously new to all this, and I suddenly remembered I had a book that came in handy when I was getting started. An introductory text.” She pushes it at you with a slightly furtive expression: The penny drops, and you slide it into your jacket pocket and thank her effusively. “No, really, it’s the least I could do. Don’t take it too seriously, but you’d be surprised how far it’ll take you. It does what it says on the can.” She smiles. “I’d better circulate now—we’re beginning to fill up. See you around . . .”
As she turns away, you risk a quick scooby at the book’s cover. On the rebound from the double-take you glare at her receding back—then remember where you are and whose whisky you’re drinking, and force yourself to calm down. The Idiot’s Pocket Guide to International Diplomacy indeed!
What kind of amateur does she take you for?
TOYMAKER: Hostile Takeover
It’s like the punch-line to a knock-knock joke gone wrong:
(Knock-knock)
“Who’s there?”
“I was looking for Mike? Is he in?”
“Please step inside, sir. Do you have some form of ID?”
You are not stupid: You aren’t carrying anything illegal on your person—it’s all in your head. Even your fall-guy phone is only guilty of behaving in a shifty manner. So you do not attempt to flee. Instead, you do as the uniformed gentleman requests and meekly step into the front hall to help him with his enquiries, whereupon you realize that something is very wrong indeed because the walls and ceiling and floor are covered in clear plastic anticontamination sheets, and there’s a scene of crime officer in a bunny suit coming down the stairs. “Will a driving license do?” you ask the cop.
You can see him giving you the quick up and down with his glasses, which is an oh-shit moment. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“John, John Christie,” you volunteer, reaching for your wallet. “Is Mike here? Is there some kind of problem?” You force an expression of worried concern, a little apprehension. Under the circumstances, it comes easily enough.
“A driving license will do. Pass it here, please.” You fumble the card and slide it towards him. Most of the John Christie ID is loaded in your phone, from microcredits to bank accounts—it’s very solid. “Why are you here?”
“I was hoping to see . . . Mike . . .” You slow your spiel as if uncertain, even though any fool can tell that something has gone seriously non-linear here. You make an effort to memorize the dibble’s name-plate: PC BROWN, presumably working for INSPECTOR SCARLET of Rainbow Division. Just your luck you aren’t wearing a lifelogger, or you could stand on your rights a little harder—but no, that might not be a good idea. Every instinct is telling you to disengage. Mike’s obviously in big trouble, which means you won’t be hiring him—that’s for sure. You need to get clear before the cops start focussing on you. A factoid pops out of the Mike Blair file and screams for your attention, and you instantly realize it’s a good one. “He said to drop by if I was ever in Edinburgh.”
PC Brown turns your driving license over in his hand, and you can see some flickering in his glasses. He’s got a contactless reader, online to the DVLA database and then back to CopSpace once they’ve authenticated it. The photograph matches, and the license is genuine. He glances