“Get my wire?” “Yeah.” He saw that the Chinese program had grown; del- icate arches of shifting polychrome were nearing the T-A ice. “Well, it’s gettin’ stickier,” the Flatline said. “Your boss wiped the bank on that other Hosaka, and damn near took ours with it. But your pal Wintermute put me on to somethin’ there before it went black. The reason Straylight’s not exactly hop- pin’ with Tessier-Ashpools is that they’re mostly in cold sleep. There’s a law firm in London keeps track of their powers of attorney. Has to know who’s awake and exactly when. Ar-
mitage was routing the transmissions from London to Straylight through the Hosaka on the yacht. Incidently, they know the old man’s dead.” “Who knows?” “The law firm and T-A. He had a medical remote planted in his sternum. Not that your girl’s dart would’ve left a res- urrection crew with much to work with. Shellfish toxin. But the only T-A awake in Straylight right now is Lady 3Jane Marie-France. There’s a male, couple years older, in Australia on business. You ask me, I bet Wintermute found a way to cause that business to need this 8Jean’s personal attention. But he’s on his way home, or near as matters. The London lawyers give his Straylight ETA as 09:00:00, tonight. We slotted Kuang virus at 02:32:03. It’s 04:45:20. Best estimate for Kuang pen- etration of the T-A core is 08:30:00. Or a hair on either side. I figure Wintermute’s got somethin’ goin’ with this 3Jane, or else she’s just as crazy as her old man was. But the boy up from Melbourne’ll know the score. The Straylight security sys- tems keep trying to go full alert, but Wintermute blocks ’em, don’t ask me how. Couldn’t override the basic gate program to get Molly in, though. Armitage had a record of all that on his Hosaka; Riviera must’ve talked 3Jane into doing it. She’s been able to fiddle entrances and exits for years. Looks to me like one of T-A’s main problems is that every family bigwig has riddled the banks with all kinds of private scams and ex- ceptions. Kinda like your immune system falling apart on you. Ripe for virus. Looks good for us, once we’re past that ice.” “Okay. But Wintermute said that Arm–” A white lozenge snapped into position, filled with a close- up of mad blue eyes. Case could only stare. Colonel Willie Corto, Special Forces, Strikeforce Screaming Fist, had found his way back. The image was dim, jerky, badly focused. Corto was using the Haniwa’s navigation deck to link with the Hosaka in Marcus Garvey. “Case, I need the damage reports on Omaha Thunder.” “Say, I…Colonel?” “Hang in there, boy. Remember your training.” But where have you been, man? he silently asked the an- guished eyes. Wintermute had built something called Armitage into a catatonic fortress named Corto. Had convinced Corto that Armitage was the real thing, and Armitage had walked, talked, schemed, bartered data for capital, fronted for Win- termute in that room in the Chiba Hilton…. And now Arm- itage was gone, blown away by the winds of Corto’s madness. But where had Corto been, those years? Falling, burned and blinded, out of a Siberian sky. “Case, this will be difficult for you to accept, I know that. You’re an officer. The training. I understand. But, Case, as God is my witness, we have been betrayed.” Tears started from the blue eyes. “Colonel, ah, who? Who’s betrayed us?” “General Girling, Case. You may know him by a code name. You do know the man of whom I speak.” “Yeah,” Case said, as the tears continued to flow, “I guess I do. Sir,” he added, on impulse. “But, sir, Colonel, what exactly should we do? Now, I mean.” “Our duty at this point, Case, lies in flight. Escape. Evasion. We can make the Finnish border, nightfall tomorrow. Treetop flying on manual. Seat of the pants, boy. But that will only be the beginning.” The blue eyes slitted above tanned cheek- bones slick with tears. “Only the beginning. Betrayal from above. From above…” He stepped back from the camera, dark stains on his torn twill shirt. Armitage’s face had been masklike, impassive, but Corto’s was the true schizoid mask, illness etched deep in involuntary muscle, distorting the ex- pensive surgery. “Colonel, I hear you, man. Listen, Colonel, okay? I want you to open the, ah . . . shit, what’s it called, Dix?” “The midbay lock,” the Flatline said. “Open the midbay lock. Just tell your central console there to open it, right? We’ll be up there with you fast, Colonel. Then we can talk about getting out of here.” The lozenge vanished. “Boy, I think you just lost me, there,” the Flatline said. “The toxins,” Case said, “the fucking toxins,” and jacked out.