9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

one each. Er, except for you, Milandra.”
    Milandra grimaced and held her hands up to her chest, palms outward. “I don’t even
     want to touch one. They make me nervous as hell.”
    Lavinia reached into her bag and withdrew an automatic pistol. “One of these each,
     too,” she said. “Walther PPK. Like that James Bond guy.”
    This drew another titter from Simone. Milandra glanced sharply at Grant, who raised
     his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Search me’.
    “Good,” said Milandra, addressing Wallace and Lavinia. “But let us hope that we never
     need to use them. Now, please, put them away.”
    “But,” added Grant, “keep them close to hand.”
    Wallace did not remove the clip from the gun, but checked that the safety was on before
     stashing it back in the flight bag. Lavinia did the same with the pistol. They hefted
     the bags once more and carried them to the front door, leaving them on the long, narrow
     table that stood next to it. They left the bags unzipped.
    Milandra’s apartment was much larger than her needs. She tended to occupy only a small
     part of the living space. She had her armchair and television and computer desk all
     in one corner where the best of the afternoon and evening sunlight could be enjoyed
     through the picture window that overlooked the Park.
    The larger, seldom-used portion of the living space was taken up by a six-seater oak
     dining table and chairs; nearby two low-slung, Oxford-green leather sofas faced each
     other over a smoked-glass coffee table. An armchair in the same leather was placed
     at the head of the table, between the two sofas.
    Milandra sat in the armchair, making the leather creak under her weight. On the sofa
     to her right sat Grant and Lavinia; to her left, Wallace and Simone.
    Lavinia glanced to the furthest side of the room where Milandra’s laptop still emitted
     the occasional ping.
    “Replies still coming?” she asked.
    “Yep,” said Milandra. “They’ve slowed somewhat, but are still pretty steady as you
     can hear.”
    “So,” said Wallace. “It’s really happening.”
    “Yes,” said Milandra. “But we still have to reach the others. The ones without internet
     access.”
    “How many?” This came from Grant.
    “Two hundred and forty-three,” Milandra replied, without having to think about it.
    Simone sighed. “Who doesn’t have access to the internet these days?”
    Milandra looked at her closely. Simone wasn’t looking back at her; she didn’t appear
     to be looking anywhere in particular, but gazed vacantly at a point somewhere above
     Grant’s head, chewing on a strand of her shoulder-length, not-quite-ginger hair. To
     Milandra, she resembled a slightly bored, slightly ditzy teenager. Again that sense
     of unease that this time she found harder to ignore. She resisted the impulse to probe:
     she needed all her mental energy for the task they were about to perform.
    Grant answered the Chosen’s question. “Well, Simone, as I thought you knew, we have
     people in countries whose governments block, or make difficult, access to the outside
     world. Television, radio, the internet are state-controlled or disabled or made inaccessible.
     Countries like North Korea and Venezuela to name but two. And many areas of the world
     are too remote. We have people in the frozen wastes of Alaska, Canada, Siberia, both
     Poles. In deserts in Africa, Asia, Australia. In the Himalayas, the Urals, the Amazonian
     rainforest—”
    “Why, Grant?” Simone interrupted.
    “Huh?”
    “Why do we have people in these far-out places?” Simone now regarded Grant, and Milandra,
     despite the unnerving naivety of Simone’s question, was relieved to see that the Chosen’s
     expression had lost some of its vacuity, had regained some vitality.
    “Well. . . .” Grant kept his tone level, but Milandra sensed that he was struggling
     to keep his patience. “It’s obvious why we need insiders in places like Korea. It’s
     so isolationist that