Read Jericho Iteration for Free Online Page B

the pockets of her jacket. She could have been anyone in the crowd except that her raingear looked a little too new and well made to be government issue. Whoever she was, she wasn’t a squatter.
    “No,” I said. She murmured an apology and started to turn away. “But I’m a friend of his,” I quickly added. “I work for the same paper. Big Muddy Inquirer.”
    She stopped, looked me over, then turned back around. “What’s your name?” she asked, still speaking in a low voice.
    “Gerry Rosen.” She gazed silently at me, waiting for me to continue. “I got an IM on my PT to meet someone here,” I went on. “I mean, it was intended for John, but—”
    “Why isn’t John here?” she demanded. “C’mon, let me see some ID.”
    “Sure, if you insist.” I shrugged, unzipped my jacket, and started to reach inside.
    “Hold it right there,” she snapped as her right hand darted out of her rain jacket. I felt something press against my ribs. I froze and looked down to see a tiny stun gun, shaped like a pistol except with two short metal prongs where the barrel should be, nestled against my chest. Her index finger was curled around the trigger button; I hoped she didn’t twitch easily.
    “Whoa, hey,” I said. “Easy with the zapper, lady.”
    She said nothing, only waited for me to make the wrong move. I wasn’t eager to get my nervous system racked by 65,000 volts, so I held my breath and very carefully felt around my shirt pocket until I located my press ID.
    I gradually pulled out the laminated card and held it up for her to see. She looked carefully at the card, her eyes darting back and forth between the holo and my face, until she nodded her head slightly. The stun gun moved away from my chest and returned to the pocket of her jacket.
    “You ought to be careful with that thing,” I said. “They’re kinda dangerous when it’s raining like this. Conductivity and all that—”
    “Okay, you’re another reporter for the Big Muddy,” she said, ignoring my sage advice. “Now tell me why you’re here and not Tiernan.”
    “That’s a good question,” I replied, “but let’s hear your side of it first. How come you tried to IM something to John but got me instead?”
    She blinked a few times, not quite comprehending. “Sorry? I don’t understand what you’re—”
    “Look,” I said, letting out my breath, “let’s try to get things straight. My PT told me about ten minutes ago that I had a message. It was addressed to John but somehow got sent to me instead, and it told me … or him, whatever … to meet somebody right here at eight o’clock. Now, since you’re obviously that somebody—”
    “Hey, wait a minute,” she interrupted. “You got this message just ten minutes ago?”
    “Yeah, just about that—”
    “Ten minutes ago?” she insisted.
    I was beginning to get fed up with this. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Who’s counting? The point is—”
    A couple of teenagers, ripped to the tits on something they had bought off the street, staggered through the gate and jostled me aside. I nearly fell against the woman; she stepped out of my way, then grabbed my jacket and pushed me behind a column.
    “The point is, Mr. Rosen,” she said quietly, staring me straight in the eye, “I didn’t send any IMs today, but I received e-mail from John Tiernan this afternoon, telling me to meet him here at eight. Now I’m here, but I instead find you. Now you tell me: where’s your buddy?”
    The conversation was getting nowhere very quickly. “Look,” I said, taking off my cap for a moment to wipe soaked hair out of my eyes, “you’re just going to have trust me on this, okay? John ain’t here. If he was, I’d know it. And if you didn’t send that IM to me—”
    “If John didn’t send e-mail to me …” Her voice trailed off, and in that instant I caught a glimpse of fear in her dark eyes.
    No, not just fear: absolute horror, the blank, slack-jawed expression of someone who has