that would mean for me: my family, the public humiliation, the possibility of a murder charge. I could only guess at what it would mean for her.
“Can you do it?” Tell me the truth. Just for once. Can you do this with all those drugs coursing through you?
“Yes.”
She could have left me that night in the rain, just pretended not to hear me, and walked away. I could have died. “All right, then. Tomorrow.”
We didn’t shake hands.
It was raining, but I didn’t feel it. I was wrapped in plasthene: hood, long coat, booties over my boots, hands sprayed with a transparent layer of plaskin. I crouched on the pavement, shielding the open pack with the waterproof coat. Spanner cursed in the darkness. I waited. The switching station’s lock was standard design; it should not be too hard. Not usually. I could feel words welling up my gullet like fish on a rising tide: Let’s go back. It’s not too late to change our minds . . . But then the lock clicked, and Spanner slid the door open, and I was handing her one pack and carrying the other inside. I pulled the door shut. It was pitch black until I found the lights.
The station was ten feet square and low-roofed. Digital relays switched soundlessly, lightlessly. It was cold. There was one chair on casters. The floor was smoothed concrete. We shook ourselves to get rid of the worst of the rain, but didn’t dare take off the coats. We were clean for this job: no stray skin or hair for the security snoops to read for DNA.
“Do you want the chair?” I asked.
Spanner was already unfastening her tool roll. She shook her head.
The stillness and silence were unnerving. “Why aren’t there any console lights?”
Spanner reached up and touched something and then there were soft reds and ambers and greens, an occasional pink and turquoise.
I unfastened my own pack and began handing Spanner things one by one: the disk that had taken me hundreds of hours to put together; the matte, featureless box that had cost so much; a flatscreen; connectors . . . Spanner had spent hours earlier, cleaning everything with ultrasonics where she could, a toothbrush where she couldn’t. No stray hairs or skin or oil to be left behind for analysis. I sat back and watched her work.
With tools in her hand and a job to do, she was transformed. Each gesture was gentle, precise as she set up the diagnostic flatscreen, watched the waveforms, nodded, reached for her tone pad. I remembered those hands touching my back, the spaces between my ribs, stroking. I remembered the whites around her eyes, the way she had trembled with the effort of not moving, not jarring her dislocated joints before the medic came.
I swallowed convulsively.
She pushed the disk into its drive, watched the screen, frowned, sucked air through her teeth.
“Trouble?”
“Um? No. Take a few minutes.”
I was distracting her. It was time I prepared myself for my part.
The access window was flat to the wall behind and to the right of Spanner. I pushed the chair until it was opposite, then sat down with a board on my lap. I thumbed it on, maneuvered myself and the chair until the green aligned panel lit up. All the other panels came up amber one by one: the station’s security systems were all on-line, doing their job, checking and rechecking access. They would flash red one by one as Spanner piggybacked the net signal, but we had a program to override the alarms at source. As long as the human overseer did not check during the dozen or so seconds we were working the signal, we should be fine. And according to the information bought along with the hardware, they shouldn’t check. But they might.
There was no way to know whether or not the program would do what its writers claimed; there was no way to make sure the handshake box would successfully mimic the net’s signal, which was changed on a random basis. Spanner had looked over the code—I had even taken a look—and as far as we could see it was the real thing, but there was only one way to be certain.
I looked over at Spanner. She was working smoothly. A soft tone seeped through the room. “Box has the handshake,” she said. “Now we just wait.” She reached up and turned on the station screen.
The schedules had listed a rerun of an old, fashionably cult-status sitcom on the