am an employee of Tortoiseshell.” The Oriental stood up and bowed to her. “Goodnight.”
~
In her dusty Valletta hotel room Tsuneko took off her spex and wristbands, then all her clothes, which she put in the laundry basket. From crinkly leaf-plas wraps she took the clothes she had bought in Virenza village: underwear, shirt, trousers, socks, and a pair of hi-grip trainers. These clothes, she knew, could not have nexus bugs in them. She washed her hair in avocado shampoo; now that too would be bug-free.
She took a biro and a piece of paper. Paused. The biro had not been used for a decade or so, its transparent sheath misted with age, and split at the end. She herself had not written for a decade, the pen strange in her left hand.
She heard helicopters passing over Valletta on their way inland.
Dear Rosalind,
I’m writing to you from Malta. I need help urgently. I daren’t use ordinary methods, the nexus is hanging right over me and the place is crawling with Japanese. I’m in trouble. Sort of. I don’t know, but I do need help.
You saved me when mum and dad were killed, you’re the only one I can turn to, just now, anyway. Please please help.
Here’s the plan! I’m going to walk at night (solo) to Rabat, six miles inland from Valletta (where I am now) in the hills to the west of the island. I need you to pick me up there in the cyclo-wing and take me to London. I’ll be in Rabat market square from the sixteenth onwards. That gives this letter a week to get to you on the ferries, and you time also. If you can’t help, send a mini-robo with ‘No’ on it.
Love,
Tsuneko.
CHAPTER 6
Pouncey took them to a new Hyperlinked hide far away from Center City East, a few strides from Vine Street, Franklintown, overlooking the greenery between Fairmount and the river. She wanted to settle a long way from Six-Fingers and the Hispanic – and Tsuneko, who now counted as a loose cannon.
Manfred struggled with his anger. Frustrated that they had moved before he had a chance to help the bis, he insisted that Pouncey give the BIteam a week in their new apartment. Pouncey shrugged, agreed, stroking the scabby wound on her right arm.
Joanna focussed on the bis. Something weird was happening to them.
The new apartment was a scuzzy wreck. At the top of a wasted office block, empty, dangerous in places where the metal exoskeleton had rusted and the glass shattered, the apartment sat like last-ditch eyrie. In the dogcrap-strewn chambers at the base of the block there was evidence of junkie habitation, but Pouncey said the traces were weeks old.
Manfred took thirty minutes out. Walking along a street he saw a black girl with a tray in front of her, spex pure white, retro fashion, a pistol displayed with ostentation in the holster at her shoulder. Tough area, Manfred thought.
But the girl was selling chocolate. Manfred stopped, checked it out. “This real?” he asked.
“Sure,” she replied.
“But, you know... the blockade.”
The girl shrugged. “Some of the warlords in Cote D’Ivoire didn’t sign up. They called it Pan African, but it wasn’t really. You don’t believe me, take a crumb. Free sample.”
“Expensive?”
“You get what you pay for, asshole. When you last see chocolate round here?”
Manfred nodded. Almost nobody bothered exporting to America any more. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take three bars. Nice meeting ya.”
He returned to the apartment with a grin on his face. This would cheer the BIteam up. The loss of Tsuneko had been a disaster.
Inside, all was quiet, but he noticed the look of concern on Joanna’s face. Handing her one of the bars he said, “What’s up?”
Pouncey dozed on a sofa. With a silent nod of her head, Joanna directed him into the bis’ room.
They were toddling around, happy enough, or so it seemed. Joanna pointed to the indigo coloured bi and said, “Watch.”
The bi did not seem to have the same dexterity and confidence of movement shown by the others.
~
In her dusty Valletta hotel room Tsuneko took off her spex and wristbands, then all her clothes, which she put in the laundry basket. From crinkly leaf-plas wraps she took the clothes she had bought in Virenza village: underwear, shirt, trousers, socks, and a pair of hi-grip trainers. These clothes, she knew, could not have nexus bugs in them. She washed her hair in avocado shampoo; now that too would be bug-free.
She took a biro and a piece of paper. Paused. The biro had not been used for a decade or so, its transparent sheath misted with age, and split at the end. She herself had not written for a decade, the pen strange in her left hand.
She heard helicopters passing over Valletta on their way inland.
Dear Rosalind,
I’m writing to you from Malta. I need help urgently. I daren’t use ordinary methods, the nexus is hanging right over me and the place is crawling with Japanese. I’m in trouble. Sort of. I don’t know, but I do need help.
You saved me when mum and dad were killed, you’re the only one I can turn to, just now, anyway. Please please help.
Here’s the plan! I’m going to walk at night (solo) to Rabat, six miles inland from Valletta (where I am now) in the hills to the west of the island. I need you to pick me up there in the cyclo-wing and take me to London. I’ll be in Rabat market square from the sixteenth onwards. That gives this letter a week to get to you on the ferries, and you time also. If you can’t help, send a mini-robo with ‘No’ on it.
Love,
Tsuneko.
CHAPTER 6
Pouncey took them to a new Hyperlinked hide far away from Center City East, a few strides from Vine Street, Franklintown, overlooking the greenery between Fairmount and the river. She wanted to settle a long way from Six-Fingers and the Hispanic – and Tsuneko, who now counted as a loose cannon.
Manfred struggled with his anger. Frustrated that they had moved before he had a chance to help the bis, he insisted that Pouncey give the BIteam a week in their new apartment. Pouncey shrugged, agreed, stroking the scabby wound on her right arm.
Joanna focussed on the bis. Something weird was happening to them.
The new apartment was a scuzzy wreck. At the top of a wasted office block, empty, dangerous in places where the metal exoskeleton had rusted and the glass shattered, the apartment sat like last-ditch eyrie. In the dogcrap-strewn chambers at the base of the block there was evidence of junkie habitation, but Pouncey said the traces were weeks old.
Manfred took thirty minutes out. Walking along a street he saw a black girl with a tray in front of her, spex pure white, retro fashion, a pistol displayed with ostentation in the holster at her shoulder. Tough area, Manfred thought.
But the girl was selling chocolate. Manfred stopped, checked it out. “This real?” he asked.
“Sure,” she replied.
“But, you know... the blockade.”
The girl shrugged. “Some of the warlords in Cote D’Ivoire didn’t sign up. They called it Pan African, but it wasn’t really. You don’t believe me, take a crumb. Free sample.”
“Expensive?”
“You get what you pay for, asshole. When you last see chocolate round here?”
Manfred nodded. Almost nobody bothered exporting to America any more. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take three bars. Nice meeting ya.”
He returned to the apartment with a grin on his face. This would cheer the BIteam up. The loss of Tsuneko had been a disaster.
Inside, all was quiet, but he noticed the look of concern on Joanna’s face. Handing her one of the bars he said, “What’s up?”
Pouncey dozed on a sofa. With a silent nod of her head, Joanna directed him into the bis’ room.
They were toddling around, happy enough, or so it seemed. Joanna pointed to the indigo coloured bi and said, “Watch.”
The bi did not seem to have the same dexterity and confidence of movement shown by the others.
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