Agency

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.