Art laughed. "There is no such thing as too obvious in this context, man. These
guys, they hate the end user, and for years they've been getting away with it
because all their users are already used to being treated like shit at the post
office and the tube station. I mean, these people grew up with *coin-operated
stoves*, for chrissakes! They pay television tax! Feed 'em shit and they'll ask
you for second helpings. Beg you for 'em! So no, I don't think it'll be too
obvious. They'll mock up the whole system and march right into MassPike with it,
grinning like idiots. Don't worry about a thing."
"OK, OK. I get it. I won't worry."
Art signalled the counterman for their bill. The counterman waved distractedly
in the manner of a harried restaurateur dealing with his regulars, and said
something in Korean to the busgirl, who along with the Vietnamese chef and the
Congolese sous chef, lent the joint a transworld sensibility that made it a
favorite among the painfully global darlings of O'Malley House. The bus-girl
found a pad and started totting up numbers, then keyed them into a Point-of-Sale
terminal, which juiced Art's comm with an accounting for their lunch. This
business with hand-noting everything before entering it into the PoS had driven
Art to distraction when he'd first encountered it. He'd assumed that the
terminal's UI was such that a computer-illiterate busgirl couldn't reliably key
in the data without having it in front of her, and for months he'd cited it in
net-bullshit sessions as more evidence of the pervasive user-hostility that
characterized the whole damned GMT.
He'd finally tried out his rant on the counterman, one foreigner to another,
just a little Briton-bashing session between two refugees from the Colonial
Jackboot. To his everlasting surprise, the counterman had vigorously defended
the system, saying that he liked the PoS data-entry system just fine, but that
the stack of torn-off paper stubs from the busgirl's receipt book was a good
visualization tool, letting him eyeball the customer volume from hour to hour by
checking the spike beside the till, and the rubberbanded stacks of yellowing
paper lining his cellar's shelves gave him a wonderfully physical evidence of
the growing success of his little eatery. There was a lesson there, Art knew,
though he'd yet to codify it. User mythology was tricky that way.
Every time Art scribbled a tip into his comm and squirted it back at the PoS, he
considered this little puzzle, eyes unfocusing for a moment while his vision
turned inwards. As his eyes snapped back into focus, he noticed the young lad
sitting on the long leg of the ell formed by the counter. He had bully short
hair and broad shoulders, and a sneer that didn't quite disappear as he shoveled
up the dhal with his biodegradable bamboo disposable spork.
He knew that guy from somewhere. The guy caught him staring and they locked eyes
for a moment, and in that instant Art knew who the guy was. It was Tom, whom he
had last seen stabbing at him with a tazer clutched in one shaking fist, face
twisted in fury. Tom wasn't wearing his killsport armor, just nondescript
athletic wear, and he wasn't with Lester and Tony, but it was him. Art watched
Tom cock his head to jog his memory, and then saw Tom recognize him. Uh-oh.
"We have to go. Now," he said to Fede, standing and walking away quickly, hand
going to his comm. He stopped short of dialing 999, though -- he wasn't up for
another police-station all-nighter. He got halfway up Picadilly before looking
over his shoulder, and he saw Fede shouldering his way through the lunchtime
crowd, looking pissed. A few paces behind him came Tom, face contorted in a
sadistic snarl.
Art did a little two-step of indecision, moving towards Fede, then away from
him. He met Tom's eyes again, and Tom's ferocious, bared teeth spurred him on.
He turned abruptly into the tube station, waved his comm at a turnstile and dove
into the thick of the crowd heading down the stairs to the Elephant and Castle
platform. His comm rang.
"What is *wrong* with you, man?" Fede said.
"One of the guys who mugged me," he hissed. "He was sitting right across from
us. He's a couple steps behind you. I'm in the tube station. I'll ride a stop
and catch a cab back to the office."
"He's behind me? Where?"
Art's comm lit up with a grainy feed from Fede's comm. It jiggled as Fede
hustled through the crowd.
"Jesus, Fede, stop! Don't go to the goddamned tube station -- he'll follow you
here."
"Where do you want me to go? I got to go back to the office."
"Don't go there either. Get a cab and circle the block a couple times. Don't
lead him back."
"This is stupid. Why don't I just call the cops?"
"Don't bother. They won't do shit. I've been through this already. I just want
to lose that guy and not have him find me again later."
"Christ."
Art squeaked as Tom filled his screen, then passed by, swinging his head from
side to side with saurian rage.
"What?" Fede said.
"That was him. He just walked past you. He must not know you're with me. Go back
to the office, I'll meet you there."
"That dipshit? Art, he's all of five feet tall!"
"He's a fucking psycho, Fede. Don't screw around with him or he'll give you a
Tesla enema."