Night Sessions, The by Ken MacLeod Page A

professional affront. He was the king.
    Jessica Stopford was his queen. Tonight she wasn't dancing, she was just sitting on a tall stool at the bar sipping a long one and talking to friends. Dave hailed her on the personal. She turned to him across the room. He saw her finger flick her phone clip.
    “Hi Dave, what's up?” she whispered.
    “Check out the loli noob at your two o’clock.”
    “Clocked her,” said Jessica. “I mean, him. Cutie.”
    Dave had already sexed the loli: sweet-faced and slender, but there was something about the hands.
    “That's the one. Getting on my tits.”
    Jessica sniggered. “I'll get on the case.” She paused, scanning the crowd, looking away and looking back and then away again, facing the bar.
    “See what you mean,” she said. “He's eyeballing very systematically. That's why he's not in the zone.”
    “Hang on, Jess, got a shift coming up.”
    Dave spun up the next file. It was funny to be worried about odd behaviour , given the kind of crowd the Cosh attracted, but the scene had its problems and tensions, its predators and their converse—people who came looking for something dangerous—and in his years on the scene he'd learned to pick up subliminal cues. If something about this loli was bugging him, it might be more than annoyance at failure to appreciate the virtuality jockey's art.
    “OK,” he went on. “You up for chatting him?”
    “Sure,” said Jessica. “Like I said, he's a cutie.”
    “I'll ping Hardcastle,” said Dave.
    Jessica leaned to her friend, said something, rose.
    “No need,” she murmured. “I can handle him.”
    “Just in case,” said Dave.
    “Your call,” she said, sounding irritated, and dropped the link.
    Dave twitched up a channel to Hardcastle. The burly humanoid robot was the preferred security hire for any Dave Warsaw gig.
    “Are you saved?”
    “Yes, boss, I'm saved.”
    “Recent?”
    “Backed up half an hour ago.”
    “OK, Hardy. I'd like you to amble inside and keep an unobtrusive line-of-sight on Jess. She's with a bloke in loli gear, looks a bit dodgy.”
    “Black nail varnish or what?” growled Hardcastle.
    “Nothing so gross,” said Dave. “Could be nothing at all. But something isn't right.”
    “With you, boss. Out.”
    About five minutes later Dave noticed Hardcastle pacing down the side of the room. A moment later it had vanished, behind a pillar that seconds ago had been somewhat narrower than the robot's own bulk. Dave, baffled for a blink, realised that Hardcastle had cast an overlay of stouter pillars on to the real ones. Now anyone in the shared virtuality wouldn't see Hardcastle at all. Neat hack, Dave thought. Diagonally across from the robot, on the other side of the dance floor, Jessica and the loli had sat down in a booth.
    One file later Jessica opened the link again.
    “Interesting guy,” she said. “Do drop by.”
    “Everything OK?” Dave asked.
    “Sure,” said Jessica. “When you're ready.”
    Dave was due for a break anyway. He selected a clutch of files, threw in some repeats from earlier, and set the lot on shuffle. He unclipped the white collar from the top of his black T-shirt, tossed it in his hat, left them on the seat, and descended from the pulpit; then he tugged at his ear lobes, cutting the sound, and headed for the bar so fast it made his long black leather coat slap at his boots. The room didn't fall silent, but without the music it was a lot quieter above the rhythmic thud of feet. One or two clutches of noobs were having unnecessarily noisy conversations; they'd pick up the etiquette and the technique soon enough.
    Dave didn't queue or pay. He was the king. The barmaid saw him coming and handed him three chill bottles of beer over all the waiting heads. He mouthed his thanks and made his way around the side of the room to the booth. Jessica and the loli were sitting opposite each other, like contrasting poles of scene style: Jessica tall, red-haired, in a long black velvet gown