The harsh bite of January m nipped viciously at Caldwell』s ears, as he hunched into his worn dark brown sheepskin jacket. He had bought it sed hand in the bazaars of Portobello Market for less than nothing durier times. It was easily his favorite possession, assuming of course that the mysterious sole was still the property of Kenzo Yamamoto. The bulk of the sole weighed heavily in the knapsack, along with the few things that Caldwell had mao grab from the capsule. Everything else was expendable and Caldwell traveled super light anyway. He had brought the Slav』s vial of death with him as insurance.
His amber-hued eyes were on high alert. If there was anyone on his tail, he wao make sure he was aware of it. Apart from a bearded homeless man, wearing enough tattered clothing to fill a Salvation Army store, dousing a makeshift fire by urinating on it and cursing to himself, the streets were deserted. It was New Year』s Day after all, and the citizens of the Union were still sleeping off the massive hangovers brought on by the previous night』s festivities.
To Caldwell, New Year』s Day held as much significe as his birthday and the fact that the two fell on the same day did not make any difference whatsoever. He didn』t celebrate New Year and he didn』t celebrate birthdays, both events requiring as they did a premeditated attempt to proactively seek the pany of others. Besides, he wasn』t even sure if the first of January was really his birthday.
In the distance, a Maglev hummed towards Aation, a thin bolt of light cutting silently through the m gloom. The rough outline of capsule city and the Angel Capsule Hotel faded jerkily into a rapidly desding fog. Caldwell had a feeling he wouldn』t be seeing it again for a long time. He had a feeling of impending doom. His migraine had subsided given him the respite he o refle the gravity of the situation.
Cad, get the hell out of wherever you are. They are after you. Your life is in so much danger dude. Message me from The Puzzle pub, Isle of Dogs.
Who they were he had no idea but he knew he had to make tact with Glyph to find out what his strange ued e-mail was all about. Was this fallout from some previous job, a hato a corporate system long ago that had returo haunt The HUB and its perpetrators? Why would Glyph, who he had never met in person, request a physical rendezvous? It didn』t make sense.
Yet, Caldwell knew better than to distrust Glyph』s instincts. The message was sent at 5.38AM, a fact that suggested that Glyph had probably been up all night as was his habit. He was as noal as Caldwell was, a firm believer that every hour spent in bed was an hour wasted. Glyph probably lived in the viity of The Puzzle, which the white pages search described as a respectable enough public house down in the historic Dods area. One of those new-fangled drinkiablishments heavy ht metal and teology.
Could the message have been a hoax, sent by someone who had mao hato Glyph』s secure base? The message had been encrypted with Glyph』s encryption key, ohe hacker had built himself. And he gave the decryption key only to trusted online associates. Only someone who had access to the key could unlock it. Or someoh lots of money and access to the cutting edge of quantum puting teology. Caldwell had read somewhere in cyberspace that relatively small quantum puters could break even the most elaborate cryptographic codes. But very few individuals could actually get their hands on on