It was, Rita supposed, a sign of how urgent the operation was becoming that the chaos today was constrained. Rubbernecking was discouraged, and the guards were enforcing the guest list as sternly as bouncers at a Hollywood red carpet event.
But not everything was running so smoothly. “It makes me look like a hippie,” Rita complained to Gladys Jensen, the wardrobe supervisor. “Are you sure it’s meant to be this color in daylight?”
“That’s what the analysts told me.” Gladys looked apologetic. “That camera of yours is okay. It captured a decent spectrum from the lights, so we were able to calibrate a proper color balance and white point and extract useful color information from the people you photographed. This is what they wear in daylight. The pattern block is guesswork, and we don’t know what fiber mix they use, but I’m betting on cotton and wool, natural all the way.”
Rita looked at herself in the mirror. The dark gray smock hung to her ankles. And the accompanying blouse and jacket made her look like an extra out of a historical movie. Dr. Zhivago, maybe. “This really isn’t my style.”
“Tough. You were shooting at night, from cover, and the crowding on the platform obscured the detailing. Those baggy pant-and-tunic outfits are risky, unless you can bring me some more shots. If you find a dressmaker’s shop, how about scanning some fashion plates or patterns for me? And get a bunch of daytime candid camera shots around the station, so next time you look more like a respectable citizen and less like you push a broom in a factory.”
“Boots.” Rita sat down.
“That’s less of a problem. I’m guessing they use leather and go for durability. I’m assuming they lace up. I didn’t see any obvious zip fasteners in your camera roll. So we got you a pair of regular boots with half-inch heels. Again, if you pass a cobbler or shoe shop, grab some images.” Gladys offered her a cardboard box. Rita opened it, and gave black calf-high boots a grudging nod.
“Okay. What about headgear?”
“This.” Gladys held out a hat with a floppy brim. “Off the shelf. It’s a close enough match for one of the subjects. If it attracts the wrong kind of attention, ditch it. But only if you’re sure it’s not going to get found. None of these items will stand up to examination—the fabric’s going to be all wrong, right down to the fiber lengths, never mind the lack of labels and detail work. Any halfway-competent detective who gets their hands on you will figure out you’re a clandestine agent in thirty seconds flat, just from your clothing. That’s why we need coins to clone, and real local clothes, before we can begin to build out a reliable agent insertion protocol.”
“Oh great.” Rita sighed. “Gear bag? Purse?”
“We’re still working on them,” Gladys admitted. “The shift workers you shot mostly weren’t carrying any—they probably eat at a diner in the factory. One of the women had something big, like carpetbag big, but we didn’t get a good enough shot. Again: if you pass luggage shops or a department store, scans would be good.”
“Scans.” Rita sighed. “What with? I mean, if I don’t have a bag, what am I meant to carry a camera in?”
“Check out the coat. See that seam? There’s a concealed pocket in there. And more pockets, here and here.” Gladys grinned. “It’s a genuine old-school spy coat! If you invert it, it’s fawn. This way out, it’s charcoal.”
“Ah!” Rita sat up. “So, um. I have a mapper”—Props had taken her through the basics of the milspec inertial navigation system earlier in the afternoon—“What about a camera?”
“You’ll be using this.” Gladys pulled out a compact slab of blackened aluminum. It sported a touchscreen on the back, and on the front a shuttered synthetic sapphire lens turret, beneath a rough patch where the rune CANON had been ground away. “It’s a light-field camera. Saves to a memory card if there’s no phone signal. The smarts are all in the adaptive optics and the light-field sensor—it’s got a times-fifty zoom and infinite focal depth.”
“Oh great.” Rita turned it over in her hands. “Smile!”
“Hey, no!” Gladys protested before Rita could push the shutter button: “No way! That’s going over to BLACK RAIN! You better keep it sterile!”
“Uh, okay.” Rita put it down. “How am I meant to practice?”
“There’s a manual.” Gladys passed her a slim booklet, its cover labeled Getting Started in sixteen languages. “Memorize it or something. Or put the snapper on automatic and leave it to make all the decisions. It’s probably smarter than you and I together.”
“Great. So is there anything more?”
“I don’t think so.” Gladys looked her up and down. “If you get a chance to find out what they use for underwear, that would be very useful. And I want to know about men’s fashion too!” Rita gave her a look. “But this is the best we can do for now. You should be all right at a distance. Just remember it probably won’t stand up to close inspection.”
“Thanks for all the hard work.” Rita eased her trainers off and began to work her way into the boots. “I mean that. Sorry I can’t wait around, though—I’ve got to go and see Ivan next. Last time he was threatening to break out skin-whitening creams, and God knows what he’s going to want to do to my hair.”
NEW LONDON, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020
Adrian Holmes, Secretary to the Central Commission of the Inner Party, ran his department from a small, windowless room deep in the former imperial palace. In place of a window, his office wall had a painting: a classic by George Stubbs, part of the Commonwealth State Art Collection: Frederick, Prince of Wales, Arrives in Boston. A fifty-two-year-old king to be, in white wig, hose, and red coat—not yet the ermine and crown and scepter of the emperor in exile—standing on a pier, graciously accepting the welcome of the city fathers. In the background, lurking, the engineer of the royal settlement and first Prime Minister of the New Empire, Baronet Benjamin Franklin—in Holmes’s opinion, a beacon and an object of emulation.
Holmes was not happy. Neither, for that matter, were the two men standing before his desk. “Stop, please, and rephrase your report,” Holmes said, staring at the older, shorter one of the two (silver-streaked gray hair combed back around his shining pate, a deeply lined face and a smashed nose souvenirs of a more exciting youth than his sober minister’s tailcoat now suggested). “As succinctly as possible, if you will.”