Halo | Page 3

use licensed by permits almost impossible to get. As a

result, Gonzales and the memex had been like meat eaters stranded
among vegetarians, unable to get their nourishment.
He'd taken down the memex that morning. Its functions dormant, it lay
nestled inside one of his two fiber and aluminum shock-cases, ready for
transport. The other case held memory boxes containing SenTrax
Myanmar group's records.
When they got home, Gonzales would tell the memex the latest news
about Grossback, how the man had cracked at the last moment.
Gonzales was sure the m-i would think what he did--Grossback was
dog dirty and scared they would find it.
----
At the edge of a sandy field south of Pagan, Gonzales waited for his
plane. Gonzales wore his usual international traveller's mufti, a tan
gabardine two-piece suit over an open-collared white linen shirt, dark
brown slipover shoes. His hair was gathered back into a ponytail held
together by a silver ring made from lizard figures joined head-to-tail.
Next to him sat a soft brown leather bag and the two shock-cases.
In front of him a pagoda climbed in a series of steeples to a gilded and
jeweled umbrella top, pointing to heaven. On its steps, beside the huge
paw of a stone lion, a monk sat in full lotus, his face shadowed by the
animal rising massive and lumpy and mock fierce above him. The lion's
flanks were dyed orange by sunset, its lips stained the color of dried
blood. The minutes passed, and the monk's voice droned, his face in
shadow.
"Come tour the temples of ancient Pagan," a voice said. "Shwezigon,
Ananda, Thatbyinnu--"
"Go away," Gonzales said to the tour cart that had rolled up behind him.
It would hold two dozen or so passengers in eight rows of narrow
wooden benches but was now empty--almost all the tourists would
have joined the crush on the terraces of Thatbyinnu, where they could
watch the sun set over the temple plain.

"Last tour of the day," the cart said. "Very cheap, also very good
exchange rate offered as courtesy to visitors."
It wanted to exchange kyats for dollars or yen: in Myanmar, even the
machines worked the black market. "No thanks."
"Extremely good rate, sir."
"Fuck off," Gonzales said. "Or I'll report you as defective." The cart
whirred as it moved away.
Gonzales watched a young monk eyeing him from the other side of the
road, ready to come across and beg for pencils or money. Gonzales
caught the monk's eye and shook his head. The monk shrugged and
walked on, his orange robe billowing.
Where the hell was his plane? Soon hunter flares would cut into the
new moon's dark, and government drones would scurry around the
edges of the shadows like huge mutant bats. Upcountry Myanmar
trembled on the edge of chaos, beset by a multi-ethnic mix of Karens,
Kachins, and Shans in various political postures, all fierce, all
contemptuous of the central government. They fought with whatever
was at hand, from sharpened stick to backpack missile, and they only
quit when they died.
A high-pitched wail built quickly until it filled the air. Within seconds a
silver swing-wing, an ungainly thing, each huge rectangular wing
loaded with a bulbous, oversized engine pod, came low over the dark
mass of forest. Its running lights flashing red and yellow, the
swing-wing slewed to a stop above the field, wings tilting to the
perpendicular and engine sound dropping into the bass. Its spots picked
out a ten-meter circle of white light that the aircraft dropped into,
blowing clouds of sand that swept over Gonzales in a whirlwind. The
inverted fans' roar dropped to a whisper, and with a creak the plane
kneeled on its gear, placing the cockpit almost on the ground. Gonzales
picked up his bags and walked toward the plane. A ladder unfolded
with a hydraulic hiss, and Gonzales stepped up and into the plane's
bubble.

"Mikhail Gonzales?" the pilot asked. His multi-function flight glasses
were tilted back on his forehead, where their mirrored ovoid lenses
made a blank second pair of eyes; a thin strand of black fiberoptic cable
trailed from their rim. Beneath the glasses, his thin face was brown and
seamed--no cosmetic work for this guy, Gonzales thought. The man
wore a throwaway "tropical" shirt with dancing pink flamingos on a
navy blue background.
"That's me," Gonzales said. He gestured with the shock-case in his right
hand, and the pilot toggled a switch that opened the luggage locker.
Gonzales put his bags into the steel compartment and watched as the
safety net pulled tight against the bags and the compartment door
closed. He took a seat in the first of eight empty rows behind the pilot.
Cushions sighed beneath him, and from the seatback in front of him a
feminine