thought. As if an Ihume would be any better, stealing resentful glances at every customer, a green slime of envy dripping from their gazes at their fructiferous supplicants, the rot of rivalry eating away at their souls.
“Just look into the scanner, please.”
Ilsa leaned forward. Blue beams danced across her orbital socket.
“And now you, Mr. Liepin.”
Maris leaned forward. Bright flashes of blue left afterimages on his cortex, like a searing immersie or a distant slash of lightning.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Liepin. Good luck in all your procreation.”
Maris grinned at Ilsa and kissed her deeply. “Oh, uh, guess we'd better wait.”
Outside, as they trotted down the steps, he could see she was about to burst with laughter.
As soon as the magnacar lid slid shut with a snick, she threw her head back and guffawed.
He watched her, bemused and warmed.
Back at his apartment, they didn't make it to the bedroom.
“Now what?” she asked a long time later, her voice in his ear thick with the rich tones of love.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“Yeah, I wish I knew.”
* * *
“Here's a nanotector, most sensitive model to date, designed to sense carbodensities above seventy-five percent by mass at a hundred yards.”
“Will my sneezeweed set it off?” Peterson took the sensor from Doctor Rihard Briedis, spider filaments wrapping his finger.
“No, Detective. Carbodensities above seventy-five percent are found only in compressed biomass agglomerates such as coal or diamond. And nanochines can't survive in either without organophosphates to assimilate.”
Maris nodded and thanked the other man. Then he stepped from the building to hail a magnacar. The street hadn't changed, industrial-park gloom and garbage-dump doom, powerlines overpowering the sky, the plaintive bleat of the garbot.
Maybe it just looks different at dawn, he decided. Maybe Ilsa had lavished light upon the darkness in his world.
The commute to the precinct was the usual crate of egg-shaped magnacars, creeping en masse toward their goals, people rushing to get nowhere.
We once drove ourselves, he thought. On some planets, they still did, and in vehicles they owned. The idea seemed ludicrous. Thousands of egos on a collision course, all scheming how to get ahead of one other, preening in ever larger, more powerful machines, packed together on a single roadway going nowhere, thinking they were getting ahead.
Now, we all know we're powerless, Maris thought, one magnacar among a hundred thousand streaming through a city so thick with grit it got between the teeth. It deposited him at the precinct steps. One glance toward the station door told him all he needed to know.
Coalition.
Black-suited crats in spit-shine spats scanned the street with dark shades and impassive, anonymous faces, one to each side of the entrance. They picked him out the moment he alighted. The magnacar whined away, lamenting his fate.
Lieutenant Anita Balodis slithered out the door and down the steps toward him. She looked as casual as an alley-drunk slinking into a liquor-jack store. “It's over, Peterson.”
“Jerk that!”
“Look at me, asshole,” she said, her voice flat.
Something about her tone. Maris did, and he saw not defeat in her eyes, not capitulation, but determined knowledge, defiant resistance.
She stepped close. He realized she was taller than he was. He wondered when that had happened. “I'll say it quick. I'll say it once. We knew this was coming. Undercover's got a guise and vehicle. It's got all you need. Take your friend with you. We'll say you stole the magnacar. Find out what's going on, Peterson. For all of us.”
She stepped back and gestured at the bounce boys bounding down the steps toward them. “A few friends from the Coalition want to talk to you. They've taken jurisdiction of your nanochine cases.”
They took him into a room with a single lamp. They used words instead of fists. They badgered him about the case. Fists
“Just look into the scanner, please.”
Ilsa leaned forward. Blue beams danced across her orbital socket.
“And now you, Mr. Liepin.”
Maris leaned forward. Bright flashes of blue left afterimages on his cortex, like a searing immersie or a distant slash of lightning.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Liepin. Good luck in all your procreation.”
Maris grinned at Ilsa and kissed her deeply. “Oh, uh, guess we'd better wait.”
Outside, as they trotted down the steps, he could see she was about to burst with laughter.
As soon as the magnacar lid slid shut with a snick, she threw her head back and guffawed.
He watched her, bemused and warmed.
Back at his apartment, they didn't make it to the bedroom.
“Now what?” she asked a long time later, her voice in his ear thick with the rich tones of love.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“Yeah, I wish I knew.”
* * *
“Here's a nanotector, most sensitive model to date, designed to sense carbodensities above seventy-five percent by mass at a hundred yards.”
“Will my sneezeweed set it off?” Peterson took the sensor from Doctor Rihard Briedis, spider filaments wrapping his finger.
“No, Detective. Carbodensities above seventy-five percent are found only in compressed biomass agglomerates such as coal or diamond. And nanochines can't survive in either without organophosphates to assimilate.”
Maris nodded and thanked the other man. Then he stepped from the building to hail a magnacar. The street hadn't changed, industrial-park gloom and garbage-dump doom, powerlines overpowering the sky, the plaintive bleat of the garbot.
Maybe it just looks different at dawn, he decided. Maybe Ilsa had lavished light upon the darkness in his world.
The commute to the precinct was the usual crate of egg-shaped magnacars, creeping en masse toward their goals, people rushing to get nowhere.
We once drove ourselves, he thought. On some planets, they still did, and in vehicles they owned. The idea seemed ludicrous. Thousands of egos on a collision course, all scheming how to get ahead of one other, preening in ever larger, more powerful machines, packed together on a single roadway going nowhere, thinking they were getting ahead.
Now, we all know we're powerless, Maris thought, one magnacar among a hundred thousand streaming through a city so thick with grit it got between the teeth. It deposited him at the precinct steps. One glance toward the station door told him all he needed to know.
Coalition.
Black-suited crats in spit-shine spats scanned the street with dark shades and impassive, anonymous faces, one to each side of the entrance. They picked him out the moment he alighted. The magnacar whined away, lamenting his fate.
Lieutenant Anita Balodis slithered out the door and down the steps toward him. She looked as casual as an alley-drunk slinking into a liquor-jack store. “It's over, Peterson.”
“Jerk that!”
“Look at me, asshole,” she said, her voice flat.
Something about her tone. Maris did, and he saw not defeat in her eyes, not capitulation, but determined knowledge, defiant resistance.
She stepped close. He realized she was taller than he was. He wondered when that had happened. “I'll say it quick. I'll say it once. We knew this was coming. Undercover's got a guise and vehicle. It's got all you need. Take your friend with you. We'll say you stole the magnacar. Find out what's going on, Peterson. For all of us.”
She stepped back and gestured at the bounce boys bounding down the steps toward them. “A few friends from the Coalition want to talk to you. They've taken jurisdiction of your nanochine cases.”
They took him into a room with a single lamp. They used words instead of fists. They badgered him about the case. Fists
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