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I
hired
an
ancient
ground
car
from
a
seedy
-
looking
dealership
two
blocks
down
from
Prescott
’
s
office
and
drove
north
over
the
rust
-
coloured
suspension
bridge
.
I
needed
time
to
think
.
The
coastal
highway
was
poorly
maintained
but
almost
deserted
so
I
stuck
to
the
yellow
line
in
the
centre
of
the
road
and
barrelled
along
at
a
steady
hundred
and
fifty
.
The
radio
yielded
a
medley
of
stations
whose
cultural
assumptions
were
largely
above
my
head
,
but
I
finally
found
a
Neo
-
Maoist
propaganda
DJ
memory
-
wired
into
some
dissemination
satellite
that
nobody
had
ever
bothered
to
decommission
.
The
mix
of
high
political
sentiment
and
saccharine
karaoke
numbers
was
irresistible
.
The
smell
of
the
passing
sea
blew
in
through
the
open
window
and
the
road
unwound
ahead
of
me
,
and
for
a
while
I
forgot
about
the
Corps
and
Innenin
and
everything
that
had
happened
since
.
By
the
time
I
hit
the
long
curve
down
into
Ember
,
the
sun
was
going
down
behind
the
canted
angles
of
the
Free
Trade
Enforcer
’
s
launch
deck
,
and
the
last
of
its
rays
were
leaving
almost
imperceptible
pink
stains
on
the
surf
on
either
side
of
the
wreck
’
s
shadow
.
Prescott
was
right
.
It
was
a
big
ship
.
I
slowed
my
speed
in
deference
to
the
rise
of
buildings
around
me
,
wondering
idly
how
anyone
could
have
been
stupid
enough
to
steer
a
vessel
that
large
so
close
to
shore
.
Maybe
Bancroft
knew
.
He
’
d
probably
been
around
then
.
Ember
’
s
main
street
ran
along
the
seafront
the
entire
length
of
the
town
and
was
separated
from
the
beach
by
a
line
of
majestic
palm
trees
and
a
neo
-
Victorian
railing
in
wrought
iron
.
There
were
holograph
‘
casters
fixed
to
the
trunks
of
the
palms
,
all
projecting
the
same
image
of
a
woman
’
s
face
wreathed
with
the
words
SLIPSLIDE
—
ANCHANA
SALOMAO
&
THE
RIO
TOTAL
BODY
THEATRE
.
Small
knots
of
people
were
out
,
rubbernecking
at
the
images
.
I
rolled
the
ground
car
along
the
street
in
low
gear
,
scanning
the
façades
,
and
finally
found
what
I
was
looking
for
about
two
thirds
of
the
way
along
the
front
.
I
coasted
past
and
parked
the
car
quietly
about
fifty
metres
up
,
sat
still
for
a
few
minutes
to
see
if
anything
happened
and
then
,
when
it
didn
’
t
,
I
got
out
of
the
car
and
walked
back
along
the
street
.
Elliott
’
s
Data
Linkage
broking
was
a
narrow
façade
sandwiched
between
an
industrial
chemicals
outlet
and
a
vacant
lot
where
gulls
screeched
and
fought
over
scraps
among
the
shells
of
discarded
hardware
.
The
door
of
Elliott
’
s
was
propped
open
with
a
defunct
flatscreen
monitor
and
led
directly
into
the
operations
room
.
I
stepped
inside
and
cast
a
glance
up
and
down
.
There
were
four
consoles
set
in
back
-
to
-
back
pairs
,
harboured
behind
a
long
moulded
plastic
reception
counter
.
Beyond
them
,
doors
led
to
a
glass
-
walled
office
.
The
far
wall
held
a
bank
of
seven
monitors
with
incomprehensible
lines
of
data
scrolling
down
.
A
ragged
gap
in
the
line
of
screens
marked
the
previous
position
of
the
doorstop
.
There
were
scars
in
the
paintwork
behind
where
the
brackets
had
resisted
extraction
.
The
screen
next
to
the
gap
had
rolling
flickers
,
as
if
whatever
had
killed
the
first
one
was
contagious
.
"
Help
you
?
"
A
thin
-
faced
man
of
indeterminate
age
poked
his
head
round
the
corner
of
one
of
the
sloping
banks
of
console
equipment
.
There
was
an
unlit
cigarette
in
his
mouth
and
a
trailing
thread
of
cable
jacked
into
an
interface
behind
his
right
ear
.
His
skin
was
unhealthily
pale
.
"
Yeah
,
I
’
m
looking
for
Victor
Elliott
.
"
"
Out
front
.
"
He
gestured
back
the
way
I
had
come
.
"
See
the
old
guy
on
the
rail
?
Watching
the
wreck
?
That
’
s
him
.
"
