“Let’s stop talking about Vicki.”
“What if it wasn’t overtly sexual?”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, McGlade.”
“I like feet,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I stared at him.
“Maybe she could step on me sometime,” he continued.
Seeing he wasn’t going to let it go, I said, “I’ll check her calendar.”
“Thanks, pal. I also like blow jobs.”
I stood up and rubbed my neck. “How long was I out?”
“An hour. I threw your clothes in the washer/dryer. Should be done by now.”
“You have a washer/dryer?”
“I get it. You said that because my clothes are always dirty. Jackass.”
“Next you’ll say you have a maid.”
“I do have a maid. But when she comes over we spend the whole time in bed and she never has a chance to clean anything.”
“Does she have cute feet?”
“No. Her toes are hairy, and they smell like cheese. But I let her step on me anyway.”
I reminded myself that I’d come here willingly. “Where’s my DT and belt?”
“All your shit is in the laundry room.”
I walked out of the office. McGlade scooped up Penis and followed me.
“You want something to eat? I could order out. There’s a place up the street that delivers. They do the best bald eagle nachos. I know most people think bald eagles are vermin, like rats. But these things melt in your mouth.”
I found the laundry room. The clothes were on the drying cycle, with a few minutes left. My utility belt and gear were on top. I picked up my DT.
“Can you hack my Taser?” I asked. “Make it work again?”
“No. Wi-Fi is hackable because there are so many free hot spots. Tesla electricity is all chip-based, dependent on ID and account numbers. Unhackable.”
“Can I buy one of your Tasers?”
“Mine are DNA-specific. Only I can fire them.”
Just like mine and every other registered Taser out there. I couldn’t even use his bullets.
“How about the Magnum?”
“Sure. Do you have half a million credits? Because that’s what it’s worth.”
“You’re supposed to be this legendary black market dealer, McGlade. Don’t you have any weapons?”
“Really? Legendary?”
“Weapons, McGlade.”
“No, Talon. Weapons are so 2050. I deal in books, posters, art, real denim blue jeans, that kind of shit. Didn’t you hear we’ve given up violence as a species in favor of a green utopia?”
“I heard. But someone isn’t playing by those rules.”
McGlade folded his arms. “Yeah. You’re that someone. I saw the transmission, you and that old ugly chick. Remind me never to play Twister with you.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“The ID chip proved it was.”
I stared at McGlade. “ID chip?”
“Yeah. The transmission zoomed in with electromagnetic radiation.”
I picked up my DT and tuned in to CNN. They were playing the video of Aunt Zelda’s death. But not the early one; the one I assumed Teague made. They were playing mine, which showed the close-up of Alter-Talon’s ID chip.
Sata? Had he given his copy of the transmission to the police?
No. The channel cut to the wreckage of my beautiful Corvette, the newscaster saying they took my TEV out of the trunk and found the recorded footage. Teague came on next, talking to a reporter. His arm was in a sling, and he looked seriously pissed. I switched from closed captioning to sound.
“The woman is still unidentified, and I just spent the last two fucking hours chasing a fucking raccoon. But it doesn’t matter. I’m a timecaster. I’ll follow him like a bloodhound until his ass is mine.”
“Is that Teague?” McGlade said. “He looks seriously pissed. I thought you guys were buddies.”
I switched off the sound, then accessed uffsee.
“Franklin Debont, inventor of UFSE, bio,” I told the voice command.
Uffsee brought up the file on Debont. It was an extensive biography. I glossed over the early years, his fifteen search-engine patents, the global utilization of uffsee on the intranet, and got to his eventual retirement. No mention of his gender change, of becoming Aunt Zelda, or of living on Wacker Drive.
“Franklin Debont, living relatives.”
It came up with one. And it wasn’t Neil. It was Franklin’s nephew, a man named Rocket Corbitz.
“Rocket Corbitz bio.”
Rocket had a one-word intranet entry.
Disenfranchized.
“He’s a dissy, huh?” McGlade asked.
I didn’t answer, momentarily lost in thought. I still believed Teague had set me up, but I had no idea how. Hopefully Sata would be able to figure that out.
But why didn’t the intranet have any record of Debont’s sex change? Or of his nephew Neil? That was impossible.
Then again, Debont was the creator of the greatest search engine in the history of mankind. He could have easily altered the entry about himself. Maybe he was a private person, and wanted to live his new life out of the spotlight.
It still didn’t make sense why Neil didn’t know his aunt was really one of the richest men on the planet. And Neil had mentioned he went to Teague before coming to me. Were they in this together somehow?
I needed to talk to Teague, but I doubted I’d be able to get any quality one-on-one time with him. He was probably already tracing my steps, and as soon as he learned my whereabouts he’d call for backup. Neil might also be compromised, and Teague could very well be using him as bait.
I called Sata on my headphone, to see if he’d figured out anything about the TEV transmission. I got his voice mail.
That left only one lead to follow up on. Rocket Corbitz.
“You still have ties to the dissys?” I asked McGlade.
“You need a tracer?”
“Rocket Corbitz. He may know something.”
McGlade stroked his elephant’s trunk in a vaguely obscene manner. “My standard fee is a thousand credits a day, plus expenses. And if Teague is on your ass, it will lead him here, so expenses are going to include disappearing me until this shit all blows over.”
“My Vette was insured. Two hundred thousand credits.”
He bowed. “Harry McGlade, tracer extraordinaire, at your disposal.”
McGlade smiled. Penis farted. I rubbed my eyes, figuring with McGlade’s help I had maybe a 10 percent chance of clearing my name.
Penis farted again. I waved away the foul air.
“It’s all the beans he eats. This elephant is crazy for beans. I know I shouldn’t keep giving them to him, but after a while you get used to the smell. It’s actually kind of aromatic.” McGlade took a large sniff. “Like elephant fart incense.”
Make that a 5 percent chance.
TWENTY
The Mastermind is nervous.
It will work. The math is good. The tech is solid. He’s not worried about witnesses, because even if he is seen, no one will know who he is or what he’s doing.
So why the dry mouth and the sweaty palms?
Perhaps it is simply a symptom of incipient genocide.
But then, it isn’t really genocide. Not technically. Or, at least, not immediately.
He muses about the mouse. Talon is doing well. Better than expected. Still not close to figuring it out, but the clues are difficult.
Perhaps he’ll never figure it out. Perhaps he’s not good enough.
Perhaps he’ll die first.
The Mastermind hopes he’ll have a chance to meet with Talon. To explain himself.
He doesn’t care how history judges him. He can pick the history that suits him best.
But he wants respect from his adversary. Wants him to appreciate the breadth and scope of his genius, the depth of his determination, the brilliance of his plan.
If you play chess against yourself, you’ll always be the winner.
Where’s the fun in that?
He buys his ticket. Sits in his seat. Double-checks his settings; the world shrinks.
He envies Talon, in a way. The joy of discovery is such a pure pleasure. The unknown happens to everyone, but so few quest to discover it.