“De nada.”
“Where are we going?” Verity asked.
“For a change of license plates and the application of decals,” Ash said. “We had planned to take you back to the Bertrand-Howell project site, but that’s been scratched, given media have a link between you and Stets’ star assistant.”
“‘Star assistant,’” said Virgil, who hadn’t opened his mouth since climbing into the van, from his seat beside the drone. “You write for tabloids?”
“Quoting one’s site, two minutes ago,” said Ash.
66
Nonneural
What are they doing now?” Rainey asked, sounding as if she were in the kitchen. He was watching the surprisingly graceful movements of the men Ash said were applying decals to this vehicle’s exterior.
Netherton muted. “A Cursion operative spotted Verity. Someone she recognized. He tried to get closer to us as we were about to leave. Conner used a small drone, knocked him out with an aerosol.”
“Where are you now?”
“In a vehicle like the one that brought us from Oakland, presently in a parking structure, not far from the hotel. A section of the place has been curtained off for privacy. Men are applying large decals to the top, back, and sides.”
“Who’s there?”
“Verity, Virgil, and Sevrin, the driver. And money launderer, according to Ash. She and Conner are accessing the drone with me.”
“Can they hear us?”
“Not at the moment.”
“What are they doing?”
“Ash and Conner are silent. Our three locals have their phones out and seem to be catching up on the news.”
“How is the news?”
“They strike me as gravely concerned, but not speechless with horror.”
Verity, to the drone’s left, looked up from her phone. “More Russian jets down?”
“Two,” Virgil answered, on the drone’s right, “but Syrian, not Russian.”
“I should go now,” Netherton said to Rainey, deciding not to share this with her immediately.
“Go,” Rainey said, “bye.”
He unmuted. “Is it worse, then?” he asked.
“Definitely not better,” Verity said. She seemed to be watching water sluice down the windshield. Coveralled decal-appliers were working to either side, while two more, on ladders, apparently did the roof, plus another at the rear. “They look choreographed,” she said, just as the water stopped flowing and small electric motors started in unison.
Heat guns, Netherton saw, through the window tint, like antique hair dryers. “Where to next?” he asked.
“Waiting for instructions,” Ash said.
“How would you know that it isn’t Cursion giving you directions?” Netherton asked.
“Because they’re given to Sevrin by his brother, in Moldovan, and they have their own security signals. In the meantime, Verity can visit with me in E8, if she likes. Verity?”
Verity turned to the drone. “Is the peripheral there?” she asked.
“No,” said Ash, “and I haven’t much to offer you in the way of a telepresence device. Barest bones.” Netherton wondering if she meant that last literally.
“Won’t that leave me frozen on the seat here?” Verity looked questioningly at Virgil. “What if something happens and we need to get out?”
“There’s no neural cut-out for this device,” Ash said. “It has no moving parts. You’ll be able to hear what’s going on around you there, and take the controller off yourself, if need be.”
“Okay,” Verity said.
“Virgil,” Ash said, “could you please help Verity with the controller? This won’t require the saline paste.”
Virgil loosened his safety belt and turned, taking the case from the seat behind the drone. He placed it on his lap, then removed its top and sides. Seeing the stub-built controller a second time, it struck Netherton that it wouldn’t stand out at all, on the table next to Ash’s yurt.
“I don’t want that goop in my hair again,” Verity said.
Virgil helped Verity settle the controller on her head, reaching over the top of the drone.
“You’ll have audio-visual,” Ash said, “but no control, other than asking me to point it in desired directions.”
“Nausea?” Verity asked.
“No,” said Ash, “it’s neurologically too low-res to readily induce it. Ready?”
“Yes.”
Virgil reached over again, to touch a switch on the side of the controller.
“Hello,” Verity said.
“Welcome,” said Ash.
For Verity’s sake, Netherton hoped they weren’t meeting in the flesh-yurt.
67
Collage Minus Glue
Is this the same year?” Verity asked Ash, who had a tangle of ultrablack hair, gray eyes below it, and wore a pale, acidy greenish-yellow shade of lipstick. She appeared to be about ten feet from Verity, while behind her stretched a single long room, its white walls windowless, the floor gray and smooth, the look of gallery space repurposed from something else.
“It is,” Ash said.
“I can’t move my head,” Verity said, having just tried.
“You haven’t a neck or shoulders,” Ash said. She came forward, wearing motorcycle boots, flowing dark pants tucked into them, and a smoothly iridescent brown carapace. She reached out, picked Verity up, and flipped her over.
“Whoa.”
“Sorry,” said Ash. “I promised you a nausea-free visit.”
They were in front of a long table, as cluttered as Joe-Eddy’s workbench but very differently textured. Ash panned Verity’s point of view the length of it, right to left. Past its end appeared what Verity took to be a hut, looking as though it had been composted from something else. In front of this was a large black-and-chrome motorcycle, old-fashioned but gleaming. “This is where you live?” Verity asked.
“Yes.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“In the yurt.” Ash swung whatever Verity inhabited back to the table, stopping at an antique vanity mirror on a tarnished silver base, then raised her, directly in front of the mirror. Verity saw the head of a doll, china, its wide eyes gray.
“You both have gray eyes,” Verity said.
“I had mine altered recently,” Ash said, “though this is the gray I was born with. I bought the doll before I had it done, to help me decide.”
“Can I see what’s on the table again?”
Ash swung the doll head to the right. “Collage minus glue, Wilf says.”
Verity glanced over decorated gourds, bundles of feathers, basketry, ethnic musical instruments both stringed and wind, ceramics, rolled tapestries, candlesticks, a tall samovar, and, most distinctively, what appeared to her to be a completely rusted submachine gun, covered with the dingy yellow plastic letters of fridge-magnet alphabets, spelling nothing Verity recognized. All of it absent anything Joe-Eddy could have de-soldered. “Is Joe-Eddy okay?” she asked, reminded of him.
“Appears to be,” Ash said. “He assumes they keylogged him, when they bugged the place. He’s right, of course.”
“Shit,” said Verity, “my laptop,” then remembered that Eunice had had someone take it from the apartment before the bugging, along with her passport.
“Guilherme,” said Ash, “has delivered, via the current pair of lawyers, a phone encrypted in a way even the aunties can’t break. Joe-Eddy can use it in bed, under the bedclothes.”
A higher purpose for black sheets, Verity thought. “The Manzilian,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s what Joe-Eddy calls Guilherme. What happened to the guy Conner gassed?”