The Blue Nowhere

destroy all the data in any computer you loaded it onto.
    “That’s not helpful, Jon.” She leaned closer to him, her misshapen sweater and knit dress stretched even further. “Now, listen. I know Bishop didn’t call in a request for backup because he’s on the run with Gillette. And even if he did, there’s nobody coming here because—thanks to you—the roads are useless. I’ve got all the time in the world to make you tell me what I want to know. And, believe me, I’m the woman who can do it. This’s old hat to me.”
    “Go to hell,” he gasped.
    Calmly, she gripped his wrist and slowly pulled his arm outward, resting his hand on the concrete. He tried to resist but he couldn’t. He stared at his splayed fingers, the iron tool floating above them.
    “I want the source code. I know you don’t have it here. You’ve uploaded it into a hiding place—a passcode-protected FTP site. Right?”
    An FTP site—file transfer protocol—was where many hackerscached their programs. It could be on any computer system anywhere in the world. Unless you had the exact FTP address, username and passcode, you’d be as likely to get the file as you’d be to find a dot of microfilm in a rain forest.
    Phate hesitated.
    Nolan said soothingly, “Look at these fingers. . . .” She caressed the blunt digits. After a moment she whispered, “Where is the code?”
    He shook his head.
    The hammer flashed downward toward Phate’s little finger. Gillette didn’t even hear it strike. He heard only Phate’s ragged scream.
    “I can do this all day,” she said evenly. “It doesn’t bother me and it’s my job.”
    A sudden dark fury crossed Phate’s face. A man used to control, a master MUD player, he was now completely helpless. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” He gave them a weak laugh. “You’ll never find anybody else who’ll want to. You’re a luser, a geek spinster—you’ve got a pretty shitty life ahead of you.”
    The flicker of anger in her eyes vanished fast. She lifted the hammer again.
    “No, no!” Phate cried. He took a deep breath. “All right . . .” He gave her the numbers of an Internet address, the username and the passcode.
    Nolan pulled out a cell phone and hit one button. It seemed that the call connected immediately. She gave the details on Phate’s site to the person on the other end of the phone then said, “I’ll hold on. Check it out.”
    Phate’s chest rose and fell. He squinted the tears of pain from his eyes. Then he looked toward Gillette. “Here we are, Valleyman, act three of our play.” He sat up slightly and his bloody hand moved an inch or two. He winced. “Didn’t quite work out the way I thought. We’ve got ourselves a surprise ending, looks like.”
    “Quiet,” Nolan muttered.
    But Phate ignored her and continued, speaking to Gillette in a gasping voice, “I’ve got something I want to tell you. Are youlistening? ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’” He coughed for a moment. Then: “I love plays. That’s from Hamlet, one of my favorites. Remember that line, Valleyman. That’s advice from a wizard. ‘To thine own self be true.’”
    Nolan’s face curled into a frown as she listened to her phone. Her shoulders sagged and she said into the mouthpiece, “Stand by.” She set the phone aside and gripped the hammer again, glaring at Phate, who—though he seemed consumed by the pain—was laughing faintly.
    “They checked out the site you gave me,” she said, “and it turned out to be an e-mail account. When they opened the files the communications program sent something to a university in Asia. Was it Trapdoor?”
    “I don’t know what it was,” he whispered, staring at his bloody, shattered hand. A brief frown on his face gave way to a cold smile. “Maybe I gave you the wrong address.”
    “Well, give me the right one.”
    “What’s the hurry?” he asked cruelly. “Got an important date with your cat at home? A TV show? A bottle of wine you’ll share with . . . yourself?”
    Again her anger broke through momentarily and she slammed the hammer down on his hand.
    Phate screamed again.
    Tell her, Gillette thought. For God’s sake, tell her!
    But he kept silent for an interminable five minutes of this torture, the hammer rising and falling, the fingers snapping under the impact. Finally Phate could stand it no more. “All right, all right.” He gave