Zero History Part 44

"I had a very peculiar and specific talent, which I didn't understand, never have understood, which now is gone. Though that hasn't been a bad thing, the gone part. It stemmed from a sort of allergy I'd had, since childhood."

"To what?"

"Advertising," the woman said. "Logos, in particular. Corporate mascot figures. I still dislike those, actually, but not much more than some people dislike clowns, or mimes. Any concentrated graphic representation of corporate ident.i.ty."

"But don't you have your own now?"

The woman looked down at her iPhone, stroked the screen. "I do, yes. Forgive me for keeping this on. I'm doing something with my kids. Difficult to keep in touch, with the time difference."

"Your logo worries me, a little."

"It was drawn by the woman Bigend had sent me to find. She was a filmmaker. She died, a few years after I found her."

Hollis was watching emotion in the woman's face, a transparency that easily trumped her beauty, which was considerable. "I'm sorry."

"Her sister sent me some of her things. There was this unnerving little doodle, at the bottom of a page of notes. When we had the notes translated, they were about the legend of the Gabriel Hounds."

"I'd never heard of them."

"Neither had I. And when I began making my own things, I didn't want a brand name, a logo, anything. I'd always removed branding from my own clothes, because of that sensitivity. And I couldn't stand anything that looked as though a designer had touched it. Eventually I realized that if I felt that way about something, that meant it hadn't been that well designed. But my husband made a compelling case for there being a need to brand, if we were going to do what I was proposing to do. And there was her squiggle, at the bottom of that page." She looked down at the horizonal screen again, then up at Hollis. "My husband is from Chicago. We lived there, after we met, and I discovered the ruins of American manufacturing. I'd been dressing in its products for years, rooting them out of warehouses, thrift shops, but I'd never thought of where they'd come from."

"Your things are beautifully made."

"I saw that an American cotton s.h.i.+rt that had cost twenty cents in 1935 will often be better made than almost anything you can buy today. But if you re-create that s.h.i.+rt, and you might have to go to j.a.pan to do that, you wind up with something that needs to retail for around three hundred dollars. I started b.u.mping into people who remembered how to make things. And I knew that how I dressed had always attracted some attention. There were people who wanted what I wore. What I curated, Bigend would have said."

"He's curating suits that do retinal damage, these days."

"He has no taste at all, but he behaves as if he's had it removed, elective surgery. Perhaps he did. That search he sent me on somehow removed my one negotiable talent. I'd been a sort of coolhunter as well, before that had a name, but now it's difficult to find anyone who isn't. I suspect he's responsible for that, somehow. Some kind of global contagion."

"And you began to make clothing, in Chicago?"

"We were having children." She smiled, glanced down at the screen, stroked it with a fingertip. "So it wasn't as though I had much time. But my husband's work was going well. So I could afford to experiment. And I discovered I really loved doing that."

"People wanted the things you made."

"That was frightening, at first. I just wanted to explore processes, learn, be left alone. But then I remembered Hubertus, ideas of his, things he'd done. Guerrilla marketing strategies. Weird inversions of customary logic. That j.a.panese idea of secret brands. The deliberate construction of parallel microeconomies, where knowledge is more congruent than wealth. I'd have a brand, I decided, but it would be a secret. The branding would be be that it was a secret. No advertising. None. No press. No shows. I'd do what I was doing, be as secretive as I could about it, and avoid the bulls.h.i.+t. And I was very good at being secretive about it. I'd gotten that from my father as well." that it was a secret. No advertising. None. No press. No shows. I'd do what I was doing, be as secretive as I could about it, and avoid the bulls.h.i.+t. And I was very good at being secretive about it. I'd gotten that from my father as well."

"It seems to have worked."

"Too well, possibly. It's at that point, now, where it either has to go to another level or stop. Does he know? That it's me?"

"I don't think so."

"Does he suspect?"

"If he does, he's doing a good job of pretending he doesn't. And right now he's focused on a crisis that has nothing to do with either of us."

"He must be in his element, then."

"He was. Now I'm not so sure. But I don't think he's giving Gabriel Hounds much attention."

"He'll know it's me soon enough. We're coming out. It's time. Tonight's pop-up is part of a that."

"He'll still be dangerous."

"That's exactly what I wanted to say to you. When Mere told me about you, I realized you'd already had the Bigend experience, but you were back for more, even though you struck her as a good person."

"I never planned it that way."

"Of course not. He has a kind of dire gravity. You need to get further away. I know."

"I've already taken steps."

The woman looked at her carefully. "I believe you. And good luck. We have the pop-up starting now, and I have to help Bo, but I wanted to thank you personally. Mere told me what you did, or rather what you weren't willing to do, and of course I'm very grateful."

"I only did what I had to do. Didn't do what I couldn't do, more like it."

They both stood.

"Totally f.u.c.king next level," Hollis heard Clammy declare, from beyond the f.u.c.king next level," Hollis heard Clammy declare, from beyond the noren noren.

70. DAZZLE

The penguin smelled of Krylon, an aerosol enamel Fiona had used to camouflage it, so to speak. Milgrim knew more about camouflage, now, than he would ever have expected to, via Bigend's interest in military clothing. Prior to that, he had only been familiar with two kinds, the one with the Lava Lamp blobs in nature shades, that the U.S. Army had featured when he was a boy, and the creepy photorealist turkey-hunter stuff that a certain kind of extra-scary New Jersey drug dealer sometimes affected. What Fiona called "dazzle," though, was new to him. Fiona said it had been invented by a painter, a Vorticist. He'd Google it, when he had time. It had been Garreth's suggestion, and Fiona had told Milgrim that it didn't actually make a lot of sense, in their situation, though anything was better than silver Mylar. She liked Garreth having suggested it, though, because it seemed to her to be part of some performance-art aspect of what he was doing. She said she'd never seen anything quite like it, what Garreth was doing, and particularly the speed with which it was being put together.

Out in the bike yard, she'd sprayed the penguin's silver Mylar with black, random, wonky geometrics, their edges fuzzy, like graffiti. Real dazzle had sharp edges, she said, but there was no way to mask the inflated balloon. She used a piece of brown cardboard, cut in a concave curve, to mask approximately, then went back with a dull gray, to fill in the remaining silver. When that had dried a little, she'd further confused it with an equally dull beige, ghosting lines in with the cardboard mask. The result wouldn't conceal the penguin against any background at all, particularly the sky, but broke it up visually, made it difficult to read as an object. Still a penguin, though, a swimming one, and now with the Taser and the extra electronics that Voytek had taped to its tummy.

There was an arming sequence, on the iPhone now, that required a thumb and forefinger, with the other forefinger needed to fire the thing. Milgrim hadn't been entirely sure what a Taser was before, but he was getting an idea. If he accidentally fired it, here in the Vegas cube, a pair of barbed electrodes would shoot out, on two thin fifteen-foot cables, propelled by compressed gas. That was strictly once-only, the barb-shooting. If the barbs went into Bigend's spotless plasterboard wall, the penguin was anch.o.r.ed there, he supposed, and there was a lot of fine cable around. But if you tapped the iPhone again, in the firing circle on the screen, the wall got shocked. Which wouldn't bother the wall, but if those barbs happened to get into anybody, which was what they were actually for, that person got a shock, a big one. Not the kind that would kill you, but one that could knock you down, stun you. And there was more than one shock stored in the toy airs.h.i.+p cabin Voytek had taped under there.

Fiona said that he wouldn't have to worry about any of that when he flew the penguin. She said it was just extra bells and whistles, something Garreth had tossed in because he'd happened to run across the Taser. That was what Voytek had indicated, grumpily, on his way out, when they'd gotten back here on the Yamaha.

But that wasn't what Garreth had told him, in Hollis's hotel room. Garreth had said that he needed Fiona to operate the other drone, the one with the little helicopters, so he needed Milgrim to operate the penguin. To keep an eye on the general area, he said. When Milgrim asked which area that was, Garreth had said that he didn't know yet, but that he was sure Milgrim would do very well. Milgrim, remembering the pleasure he'd taken in rolling the black ray, decided that simply nodding was the best course. Though the idea of anyone wanting him to operate anything was new. Other people operated things, and Milgrim observed them doing it. But, he supposed, he was really only being asked to observe something, whatever it was, through the cameras in the penguin, and it was best, as Fiona suggested, to regard the Taser as a random add-on.

It was harder to get the penguin to do anything, in the constrained s.p.a.ce of the Vegas cube, than it had been to get the ray to do those rhythmic somersaults, but he was starting, now, to manage a repeated stationary roll. If he b.u.mped the wall, Fiona noticed, and didn't like it, so he tried to be as careful as he could. She said that the robotics in the wings were fragile, and the penguin was helpless without them. It didn't really fly, because penguins don't, and it was a balloon; rather, it swam, through air instead of water, and once you had it going where you wanted it to, it knew how to swim by itself. He was careful to keep that overridden now. He wished they could take the thing out and really fly it, the way he'd seen her fly the other one in Paris, but she said that they couldn't, because people might see it and get excited, and because Garreth had ordered her to keep him inside.

Being kept inside with Fiona was an excellent thing, as far as Milgrim was concerned, but he was starting to recall Hollis's scary-looking shower with something other than fear. "I wish there was a shower here," he said, slowing the penguin's roll, bringing the Taser around until it was on the bottom, stopping it. There was something wonderfully satisfying about this thing, something silky about the way it worked.

"There is," said Fiona, looking up from his Air, where she sat at the table.

"There is?" Milgrim, on his back on the white foam, glanced around the blank white walls, thinking he'd missed a door.

"Benny has one rigged up. Drivers use it, sometimes. It has a geyser so old that it has a box that used to take coins. I could do with one myself."

Milgrim was simultaneously aware of the stickiness of his armpits and what even the briefest image of Fiona in a shower did to him. "You go first, then."

"You can't trust Benny's geyser," said Fiona. "Get it working, it'll go once, then stop. We should shower together."

"Together," said Milgrim, and heard the voice he only had in police custody. He coughed.

"We'll leave the light out," said Fiona, who was looking at him with an expression he couldn't identify at all. "I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight. Literally. That was what he said."

"Who?" asked Milgrim, in his own voice.

"Garreth." She was wearing her armored pants, low on her hips as she sat on one of Bigend's elegant chairs, and a tight T-s.h.i.+rt, white, that said RUDGE RUDGE at the top of a round black emblem, the size of a dinner plate, and at the top of a round black emblem, the size of a dinner plate, and COVENTRY COVENTRY at the bottom. Between these names was a red heraldic hand, open and upright, its palm presented as if to warn anyone off the small but prominent b.r.e.a.s.t.s behind it. at the bottom. Between these names was a red heraldic hand, open and upright, its palm presented as if to warn anyone off the small but prominent b.r.e.a.s.t.s behind it.

"If it's all right with you," said Milgrim.

"I suggested it, didn't I?"

71. THE UGLY T-s.h.i.+RT

Where are you? Robert said you left with a woman."

She was leaving the denim shop with Meredith and Clammy. "Soho. I did. Meredith. On my way back now."

"Should have given you the sort of safe-word I gave your employer."

"No. It's okay."

"Better if you're not out."

"Necessary, though."

"But you're coming back now?"

"Yes. See you soon."

She looked from the phone in her hand to the faintly candlelit window. Shadows of people. Two more arriving now, to be admitted by Bo. Meredith thought she'd seen an a.s.sociate editor from French Vogue Vogue. Clammy had ignored several other musicians, slightly older than he was, whom Hollis vaguely recognized. Otherwise, not what she thought of as a fas.h.i.+on crowd. Something else, though she didn't know what. But she could tell that the secret Bigend had been chasing had already been starting to emerge when he'd given her the a.s.signment. Already Hounds wasn't a secret in the same way. He was too late. What did that mean? Was he losing his touch? Had he been too focused on his project with Chombo? Had Sleight somehow been skewing the flow of information?

Clammy's little gray wagon arrived, driven by a very Clammy-looking boy Clammy didn't bother to introduce. He popped out, handed Clammy the keys, nodded, and walked away.

"Who was that?" Hollis asked.

"a.s.sistant," said Clammy absently, opening the door on the pa.s.senger side. He had an unmarked manila shopping bag the size of a small suitcase. "You'll have to hold this for me."

"What did you get?"

"Two of the black, two of the chino, two s.h.i.+rts, and the black of your jacket."

"And something for you," said Meredith, to Hollis.

"It's on top," said Clammy impatiently. "Get in."

Hollis folded herself, sideways, onto the rear bench, and accepted Clammy's bag as best she could. A potent waft of indigo.

Clammy and Meredith got in, doors closing. "It was the first thing she ever did," said Meredith, looking back. "Before she started Hounds."

Hollis found something wrapped in unbleached tissue, atop Clammy's thick, heavy pad of denim. Fumbled it out, pulling the tissue aside. Dark, smooth, heavy jersey. "What is it?"

"That's for you to work out. A seamless tube. I've seen her wear it as a stole, an evening dress of any length, several different ways as skirts. Fabric's amazing. Some ancient factory in France, this latest batch."

"Thank her, please. And thank you. Both of you."

"I'm sorted," said Clammy, turning into Oxford Street, "just don't crush my gear."

When the lift descended, answering her call, she found it occupied by a short, older, oddly broad man of indeterminately Asian aspect, his thinning gray hair brushed neatly back. He stood very upright in the middle of the cage, a bobble-topped tartan tam in his hands, and thanked her, accent crisply British, when she hauled open the cage's gate. "Good evening," he said with a nod, stepping past her, turning on his heel, and marching for Cabinet's door as he settled his tam.

Robert opened and held the door for him.

The ferret was in its vitrine.

When she reached Number Four's door, she remembered she hadn't taken her key. She rapped with her knuckles, softly. "It's me."

"Moment," she heard him say.

She heard the chain rattle. Then he opened the door, leaning on his four-legged cane, something she took to be a glossy black LP sleeve tucked under his arm.

"What's that?" she asked.

"The ugliest T-s.h.i.+rt in the world," he said, and kissed her cheek.

"The Bollards will be disappointed," she said, coming in and closing the door. "I thought they'd had me sleeping in that."

"So ugly that digital cameras forget they've seen it."

"Shall we have a look at it, then?"

"Not yet." He showed her the black square, which she now saw was a sort of plastic envelope, its edges welded shut. "We might contaminate it with our DNA."

"No, thank you. We might not not."