Wireless by Charles Stross

Author:Charles Stross
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Tags: Fiction - Science Fiction, Short Stories (single author), General, Science Fiction, American, English Science Fiction And Fantasy, Science Fiction - Short Stories, Fiction, Short stories
ISBN: 9780441017195
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 2009-07-07T07:00:00+00:00

The Days Inn was indeed a dump, and doubt nagged at Roscoe as he reached for the front door. If she was a Fed, there might be more ways she could nail him than just by arresting him in the same room as an illegal wireless card. So Roscoe turned around and drove to a diner along the block from the motel, then went inside to look for a wired phone.

“Room 208, please . . . Hi there. If you’d care to come outside, there’s a diner about fifty yards down the road. Just turn left out of the lobby. I’m already there.” He hung up before she could ask any awkward questions, then headed for a booth by the window. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled the copy of 2600 out of his pocket. The hacker magazine (shut down by a court injunction last year) was a good recognition signal—plus, having it didn’t violate the letter of his parole.

Roscoe was halfway down his first mug of coffee when someone leaned over him. “Hi,” she said.

“You must be Sylvie.” He registered a confused impression of bleached blond hair, brown eyes, freckles. Must be straight out of J-school. “Have a seat. Coffee?”

“Yes please.” She put something like a key ring down, then waved a hand, trying to catch the waitress’s eye. Roscoe looked at the key ring. Very black, very small, very Nokia. Rumor said they were giving them away in cereal boxes in France.

“Suppose you tell me why you wanted to meet up,” Roscoe said quietly. “Up front. I can tell you right now that I’m out on parole, and I’ve got no intention of doing anything that puts me back inside.”

The waitress ambled over, pad in hand. Sylvie ordered a coffee. “What were you charged with?” she said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Roscoe snorted. Score one for the cool lady—some folks he’d met ran a mile the instant he mentioned being a con. “I was accused of infringement with a side order of black crypto, but plea-bargained it down to unlawful emissions.” Score two—she smiled. It was a weak joke, but it took some of the sting out of it. “Strictly no-collar crime.” He took another mouthful of coffee. “So what is it you’re doing up here?”

“I’m working on a story about some aspects of unwiring that don’t usually make the national press,” she said, as the waitress came over, empty mug in one hand and jug in the other. Roscoe held his up for a refill.

“Credentials?”

“I could give you a phone number, but would you trust it?”

“Point.” Roscoe leaned back against the elderly vinyl seat. Young, but cynical.

“Well,” she added, “I can do better.” She pulled out a notepad and began scribbling. “This is my editor’s name and address. You can look up his number. If you place a call and ask for him, you’ll get put through—you’re on the list of interview subjects I left him. Next, here’s my—no, an—e-mail address.” Roscoe blinked—it was a handle on a famous Finnish anonymous remixer.

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