Free Halting State by Charles Stross Page B

have to tough it out, like having a cavity drilled out without local anaesthetic. It’s all part of being constructive .
    The sudden-death summons to an agenda-less face-to-face meeting about the Tiger Investments account does, it must be admitted, suggest something interesting is afoot. Chris handles their business, and while you haven’t had anything to do with it before, you sort of knew what it was about. TI is an angel specializing in high-tech start-ups, your typical Web 3.1415 outfits, and TI contracted DBA—in the person of Chris Morgan, full partner (and Director of Risk Management)—to produce full pre-IPO investment reports on their clients. Now one of them appears to have gone spectacularly pear-shaped.
    “I got a call from TI yesterday evening,” Chris explains. He’s got that post-augmented crash look, as if he’s been burning bandwidth all night. He’s in his midfifties, with heavy black eyebrows and a perpetual worried expression behind his thick-rimmed glasses, as if he’s certain he’s forgotten something important. “Their latest clients have had a catastrophic intrusion. More to the point, their lead programmer is missing, and they’re screaming about an inside job. I don’t have the full picture yet, but it appears someone called in the police, and I understand the local force are escalating it to SOCA. TI have mostly cashed out, and obviously they’ll be under suspicion of ramping. Our direct liability is capped at five million, but the implication that we missed something is clearly there.” He pushes his specs up his nose. (He may be one of the last generation who grew up with PCs with glass tubes, but he’s kept abreast of the times: those high-resolution Armani displays conceal lasik-enhanced eyeballs.)
    Brendan clears his throat. “What’s the plan?” he asks mildly.
    “You’re the plan: all of you.” He grins quickly. You glance around the table, seeing surprised faces: Faye, Mohammed, Fred, Brendan. The only person who’s nodding is Margaret, an indicator that speaks volumes. “We’re going up there tonight on the sleeper train. Jessica’s booking rooms and a secure conference suite for us in the West End Malmaison. I expect we’ll be there for about a week, so pack your bags accordingly. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing your schedules as this is now our number one priority.” He looks directly at you, and you raise an eyebrow. “Yes, Elaine, you’re off the Croatia job. Any questions?”
    Mohammed, diffidently: “It’s Friday…”
    “I know.” Chris looks as if he’s bitten a lemon. “But the police are already in attendance. We can’t barge in and expect anyone to give us the time of day right now. Monday is another matter, so we’re going up there tonight. You’ve got Saturday to decompress, and Sunday we’ll hold a planning session so that when we go in mob-handed on Monday morning, we’ve got some idea what we’re doing.” He pauses. “By the way, you’re all free to go home after this meeting. You’ll be needing time to make appropriate arrangements.”
    “What are we going up there for?” you ask. “I mean, what can’t we do from down here?”
    “She’s right,” Mohammed agrees. He glances at you nervously.
    “I don’t see why you need me, ” Brendan adds waspishly. “Scotland’s got a different legal system. I’m not qualified to practice up there.”
    “Hayek Associates are incorporated in London, under English law,” says Faye. “Isn’t that right?” She looks unnaturally pleased with herself.
    “That’s right,” says Chris. To Mohammed, with a shy grin: “There’s no escape!”
    You can’t help yourself: “But I still don’t see why we need to be there in person.”
    Chris screws up his face and opens his mouth, but Margaret gets there first. “If I may?” she asks.
    Chris nods.
    “This doesn’t happen very often.” Margaret’s lips are as thin as a black line on a balance sheet. “I know what you’re