large. He sat up. The room was empty, aside from the wide pink bedslab
and two nylon bags, new and identical, that lay beside it. Blank walls, no windows,
a single white-painted steel firedoor. The walls were coated with countless layers
of white latex paint. Factory space. He knew this kind of room, this kind of building;
the tenants would operate in the interzone where art wasn’t quite crime, crime not
quite art.
He was home.
He swung his feet to the floor. It was made of little blocks of wood, some missing,
others loose. His head ached. He remembered Amsterdam, another room, in the Old City
section of the Centrum, buildings centuries old. Molly back from the canal’s edge
with orange juice and eggs. Armitage off on some cryptic foray, the two of them walking
alone past Dam Square to a bar she knew on a Damrak thoroughfare. Paris was a blurred
dream. Shopping. She’d taken him shopping.
He stood, pulling on a wrinkled pair of new black jeans that lay at his feet, and
knelt beside the bags. The first one he opened was Molly’s: neatly folded clothing
and small expensive-looking gadgets. The second was stuffed with things he didn’t
remember buying: books, tapes, a simstim deck, clothing with French and Italian labels.
Beneath a green t-shirt, he discovered a flat, origami-wrapped package, recycled Japanese
paper.
The paper tore when he picked it up; a bright nine-pointed star fell—to stick upright
in a crack in the parquet.
“Souvenir,” Molly said. “I noticed you were always looking at ’em.”He turned and saw her sitting cross-legged on the bed, sleepily scratching her stomach
with burgundy nails.
“S OMEONE ’ S COMING LATER to secure the place,” Armitage said. He stood in the open doorway with an old-fashioned
magnetic key in his hand. Molly was making coffee on a tiny German stove she took
from her bag.
“I can do it,” she said. “I got enough gear already. Infrascan perimeter, screamers . . .”
“No,” he said, closing the door. “I want it tight.”
“Suit yourself.” She wore a dark mesh t-shirt tucked into baggy black cotton pants.
“You ever the heat, Mr. Armitage?” Case asked, from where he sat, his back against
a wall.
Armitage was no taller than Case, but with his broad shoulders and military posture
he seemed to fill the doorway. He wore a somber Italian suit; in his right hand he
held a briefcase of soft black calf. The Special Forces earring was gone. The handsome,
inexpressive features offered the routine beauty of the cosmetic boutiques, a conservative
amalgam of the past decade’s leading media faces. The pale glitter of his eyes heightened
the effect of a mask. Case began to regret the question.
“Lots of Forces types wound up cops, I mean. Or corporate security,” Case added uncomfortably.
Molly handed him a steaming mug of coffee. “That number you had them do on my pancreas,
that’s like a cop routine.”
Armitage closed the door and crossed the room, to stand in front of Case. “You’re
a lucky boy, Case. You should thank me.”
“Should I?” Case blew noisily on his coffee.
“You needed a new pancreas. The one we bought for you frees you from a dangerous dependency.”
“Thanks, but I was enjoying that dependency.”
“Good, because you have a new one.”
“How’s that?” Case looked up from his coffee. Armitage was smiling.
“You have fifteen toxin sacs bonded to the lining of various mainarteries, Case. They’re dissolving. Very slowly, but they definitely are dissolving.
Each one contains a mycotoxin. You’re already familiar with the effect of that mycotoxin.
It was the one your former employers gave you in Memphis.”
Case blinked up at the smiling mask.
“You have time to do what I’m hiring you for, Case, but that’s all. Do the job and
I can inject you with an enzyme that will dissolve the bond without opening the sacs.
Then you’ll need a blood change.
and two nylon bags, new and identical, that lay beside it. Blank walls, no windows,
a single white-painted steel firedoor. The walls were coated with countless layers
of white latex paint. Factory space. He knew this kind of room, this kind of building;
the tenants would operate in the interzone where art wasn’t quite crime, crime not
quite art.
He was home.
He swung his feet to the floor. It was made of little blocks of wood, some missing,
others loose. His head ached. He remembered Amsterdam, another room, in the Old City
section of the Centrum, buildings centuries old. Molly back from the canal’s edge
with orange juice and eggs. Armitage off on some cryptic foray, the two of them walking
alone past Dam Square to a bar she knew on a Damrak thoroughfare. Paris was a blurred
dream. Shopping. She’d taken him shopping.
He stood, pulling on a wrinkled pair of new black jeans that lay at his feet, and
knelt beside the bags. The first one he opened was Molly’s: neatly folded clothing
and small expensive-looking gadgets. The second was stuffed with things he didn’t
remember buying: books, tapes, a simstim deck, clothing with French and Italian labels.
Beneath a green t-shirt, he discovered a flat, origami-wrapped package, recycled Japanese
paper.
The paper tore when he picked it up; a bright nine-pointed star fell—to stick upright
in a crack in the parquet.
“Souvenir,” Molly said. “I noticed you were always looking at ’em.”He turned and saw her sitting cross-legged on the bed, sleepily scratching her stomach
with burgundy nails.
“S OMEONE ’ S COMING LATER to secure the place,” Armitage said. He stood in the open doorway with an old-fashioned
magnetic key in his hand. Molly was making coffee on a tiny German stove she took
from her bag.
“I can do it,” she said. “I got enough gear already. Infrascan perimeter, screamers . . .”
“No,” he said, closing the door. “I want it tight.”
“Suit yourself.” She wore a dark mesh t-shirt tucked into baggy black cotton pants.
“You ever the heat, Mr. Armitage?” Case asked, from where he sat, his back against
a wall.
Armitage was no taller than Case, but with his broad shoulders and military posture
he seemed to fill the doorway. He wore a somber Italian suit; in his right hand he
held a briefcase of soft black calf. The Special Forces earring was gone. The handsome,
inexpressive features offered the routine beauty of the cosmetic boutiques, a conservative
amalgam of the past decade’s leading media faces. The pale glitter of his eyes heightened
the effect of a mask. Case began to regret the question.
“Lots of Forces types wound up cops, I mean. Or corporate security,” Case added uncomfortably.
Molly handed him a steaming mug of coffee. “That number you had them do on my pancreas,
that’s like a cop routine.”
Armitage closed the door and crossed the room, to stand in front of Case. “You’re
a lucky boy, Case. You should thank me.”
“Should I?” Case blew noisily on his coffee.
“You needed a new pancreas. The one we bought for you frees you from a dangerous dependency.”
“Thanks, but I was enjoying that dependency.”
“Good, because you have a new one.”
“How’s that?” Case looked up from his coffee. Armitage was smiling.
“You have fifteen toxin sacs bonded to the lining of various mainarteries, Case. They’re dissolving. Very slowly, but they definitely are dissolving.
Each one contains a mycotoxin. You’re already familiar with the effect of that mycotoxin.
It was the one your former employers gave you in Memphis.”
Case blinked up at the smiling mask.
“You have time to do what I’m hiring you for, Case, but that’s all. Do the job and
I can inject you with an enzyme that will dissolve the bond without opening the sacs.
Then you’ll need a blood change.
Similar Books
