even sure about that.
"Nope," he told her. "Wrong. Sorry." He wasn't even lying. The virus was only the carrier.
She rolled her eyes. "I knew you wouldn't tell me. They nev —I knew it."
"So why the diver get-up?" Suddenly, changing the subject seemed like a good idea.
"Rifter chic." The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Solidarity through fashion."
"What, rifters are political now?"
She seemed to perk up a bit. "You remember. You can't spend all your time saving the world."
He didn't. And there had been a bit of a flap a few months before, after some ferret-nosed journalist had managed to sneak the story past the N'AmWire censors. Turned out the GA'd been recruiting incest victims and war vets to run their deep-sea geothermal stations—the theory being, those best suited to the chronic stress of that environment were those who'd been (how had the spinners put it?) preconditioned since childhood. There'd been the usual squeals of public outrage, everything from how dare you exploit society's victims for the sake of a few Megawatts to how dare you turn the power grid over to a bunch of psychos and post-trauma head cases .
It had been quite the scandal for a while. But then some new strain of equine encephalitis had swept through the Strip, and someone had traced it to a bad batch of contraceptives in the cyclers. And now, of course, with everybody still reeling after the Quake out west, people had pretty much forgotten the rifters and their problems.
At least, he'd thought they had. But now there was this woman at his side, and whatever outlets she took her fashion cues from—
"Listen," she said. "I bet you get tired, fighting the forces of entropy all the time. Want to take a break and obey the second law of thermodynamics for a change?"
"Entropy's not a force. Common misconception."
"Stop talking so much. They've got rooms downstairs. I'll pay for the first hour."
Desjardins sighed.
"What?" Gwen said. "Don't tell me you're not interested—your vitals have been horning up since the moment I arrived." She tapped one of the accessories on her outfit—a biotelemetry pickup, he noticed belatedly.
He shrugged. "True enough."
"So what's the problem? Didn't take your pills today? I'm clean." She showed him the tattoos on her inner wrist; she'd been immunized against an arsenal.
"Actually, I—I just don't go out much."
"No shit. Come on." Gwen laid a hand firmly on his arm.
"For two reasons," said a female voice at his back, "I'm guessing that Killjoy here is about to turn you down. Don't take it personally."
Desjardins briefly closed his eyes. "I thought you didn't indulge."
One-point-seven meters of skinny trouble-making Filipino stepped into view. "I'm Alice," she said to Gwen.
"Gwen," said Gwen to Alice.
"Reason number one," Jovellanos continued, "is that he's just been called in."
"You're kidding," Desjardins said. "I just got off ."
"Sorry. They want you back in, let's see—" Jovellanos glanced at her wrist—"seven minutes now. Some corpse actually flew out from N'AmPac just to see you in person. You can imagine their frustration when they discovered you'd turned your watch off."
"It's past curfew. Just being a good citizen." Which was utter detritus, of course: 'lawbreakers were exempt from such restrictions. Sometimes Desjardins just didn't want to be found.
Obviously a forlorn hope. He pushed himself back from the bar and stood up, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. Nice meeting you, though."
"Reason number two," Gwen said to Jovellanos, ignoring him.
"Oh, right. Killjoy here doesn't fuck real people. Considers it disrespectful." Jovellanos tilted her head in his direction, a fractional bow. "Not that he doesn't have the instincts, of course. I bet he's been taking stereos of you since the moment you sat down."
Gwen looked an amused challenge at him.
Desjardins shrugged. "I'll wipe 'em if you've got any objections. I was going to ask anyway."
She shook her
"Nope," he told her. "Wrong. Sorry." He wasn't even lying. The virus was only the carrier.
She rolled her eyes. "I knew you wouldn't tell me. They nev —I knew it."
"So why the diver get-up?" Suddenly, changing the subject seemed like a good idea.
"Rifter chic." The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Solidarity through fashion."
"What, rifters are political now?"
She seemed to perk up a bit. "You remember. You can't spend all your time saving the world."
He didn't. And there had been a bit of a flap a few months before, after some ferret-nosed journalist had managed to sneak the story past the N'AmWire censors. Turned out the GA'd been recruiting incest victims and war vets to run their deep-sea geothermal stations—the theory being, those best suited to the chronic stress of that environment were those who'd been (how had the spinners put it?) preconditioned since childhood. There'd been the usual squeals of public outrage, everything from how dare you exploit society's victims for the sake of a few Megawatts to how dare you turn the power grid over to a bunch of psychos and post-trauma head cases .
It had been quite the scandal for a while. But then some new strain of equine encephalitis had swept through the Strip, and someone had traced it to a bad batch of contraceptives in the cyclers. And now, of course, with everybody still reeling after the Quake out west, people had pretty much forgotten the rifters and their problems.
At least, he'd thought they had. But now there was this woman at his side, and whatever outlets she took her fashion cues from—
"Listen," she said. "I bet you get tired, fighting the forces of entropy all the time. Want to take a break and obey the second law of thermodynamics for a change?"
"Entropy's not a force. Common misconception."
"Stop talking so much. They've got rooms downstairs. I'll pay for the first hour."
Desjardins sighed.
"What?" Gwen said. "Don't tell me you're not interested—your vitals have been horning up since the moment I arrived." She tapped one of the accessories on her outfit—a biotelemetry pickup, he noticed belatedly.
He shrugged. "True enough."
"So what's the problem? Didn't take your pills today? I'm clean." She showed him the tattoos on her inner wrist; she'd been immunized against an arsenal.
"Actually, I—I just don't go out much."
"No shit. Come on." Gwen laid a hand firmly on his arm.
"For two reasons," said a female voice at his back, "I'm guessing that Killjoy here is about to turn you down. Don't take it personally."
Desjardins briefly closed his eyes. "I thought you didn't indulge."
One-point-seven meters of skinny trouble-making Filipino stepped into view. "I'm Alice," she said to Gwen.
"Gwen," said Gwen to Alice.
"Reason number one," Jovellanos continued, "is that he's just been called in."
"You're kidding," Desjardins said. "I just got off ."
"Sorry. They want you back in, let's see—" Jovellanos glanced at her wrist—"seven minutes now. Some corpse actually flew out from N'AmPac just to see you in person. You can imagine their frustration when they discovered you'd turned your watch off."
"It's past curfew. Just being a good citizen." Which was utter detritus, of course: 'lawbreakers were exempt from such restrictions. Sometimes Desjardins just didn't want to be found.
Obviously a forlorn hope. He pushed himself back from the bar and stood up, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. Nice meeting you, though."
"Reason number two," Gwen said to Jovellanos, ignoring him.
"Oh, right. Killjoy here doesn't fuck real people. Considers it disrespectful." Jovellanos tilted her head in his direction, a fractional bow. "Not that he doesn't have the instincts, of course. I bet he's been taking stereos of you since the moment you sat down."
Gwen looked an amused challenge at him.
Desjardins shrugged. "I'll wipe 'em if you've got any objections. I was going to ask anyway."
She shook her
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