head; that enticing half-smile played faintly across her face. "Have fun. Maybe they'll even get you interested in the real thing after a while."
"Better hope not," Jovellanos remarked. "You probably wouldn't like what he's into."
* * *
Complex Systems Instability-Response Authority : the words hung at the back of the lobby like a glowing uvula, a vain and bureaucratic demand for respect. Nobody ever bothered to speak them aloud, of course; few even shortened it down to CSIRA , which the corpses would gladly have settled for. Nope. The Entropy Patrol . That was the name that had stuck. You could almost see the space-cadet uniforms. Desjardins had always thought that saving the world should engender a bit more respect.
"What makes you such an enculé today?" he grumbled as they stepped into the elevator.
Jovellanos blinked. "Sorry?"
"That whole scene back there."
"Don't you believe in truth in advertising? You don't hide any of that stuff. Mostly."
"I like to control the flow rate, though. Jesus." He punched Admin-6 . "Your timing was shitty."
"My timing was great. They want you upstairs now , Killjoy. I don't think I've ever seen Lertzman quite so invested in anything before. If I'd waited for you to go through your usual non-mating dance we'd have been down there 'til the icecaps refroze. Besides, you've got a real problem saying no. You could've ended up fucking her just to keep from hurting her feelings."
"I don't think her feelings are all that fragile."
"So what? Yours are."
The doors opened. Desjardins stepped through. Jovellanos hung back.
He looked at her, a trifle impatiently. "I thought we were in a hurry."
She shook her head. " You are. I'm not cleared for this. They just sent me to get you."
"What?"
"Just you."
"That's bullshit, Alice."
"They're being paranoid about this, Killjoy. I told you. Invested ."
The doors slid shut.
* * *
He stuck his finger into the bloodhound, winced at a brief stabbing pain. A physical sample. They weren't even trusting distance spec today.
After a moment an executive summary scrolled down the wall in three columns. On the left, a profile: blood type, pH, gas levels. On the right, an itemized list: platelets, fibrinogen, rbcs & wbcs, antibodies, hormones. All the parts of his lifeblood that had come from nature.
In the center, another list, somewhat shorter: the parts that had come from CSIRA.
Desjardins had learned to read the numbers, after a fashion. Everything looked in order. Of course, it was nice to have independent confirmation: the door in front of him was opening, and none of the others were slamming shut.
He stepped into the boardroom.
Three people were arrayed at the far end of the conference table. Lertzman sat in his usual seat at the head; to his left was a short blond woman Desjardins hadn't seen before. Which meant nothing, of course—he didn't know most of the people in admin.
To the blonde's left, another woman. Desjardins didn't know her either. She looked back at him through eyes that literally glittered—tactical contacts. She was only partly in the room. The rest of her was watching whatever overlays those lenses served up. At the edges of her mouth and around her mercurial eyes, faint lines and a slight droop to the right eyelid; otherwise the face was a pale and featureless sketch, a CaucAsian wash. Her dark hair grayed at the temples, a discoloration that seemed to spread infinitesimally as he watched.
The corpse from N'AmPac. Had to be.
Lertzman rose expectantly. The blonde started to follow his lead; halfway out of her chair she glanced at N'AmPac. N'AmPac did not stand. The blonde hesitated, wavered, sat back down. Lertzman cleared his throat and followed suit, waving Desjardins to a seat opposite the two women.
"This is Patricia Rowan," Lertzman said. When, after a few moments, it became obvious that nobody was going to introduce the blonde, Desjardins said, "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"On the contrary,"
"Better hope not," Jovellanos remarked. "You probably wouldn't like what he's into."
* * *
Complex Systems Instability-Response Authority : the words hung at the back of the lobby like a glowing uvula, a vain and bureaucratic demand for respect. Nobody ever bothered to speak them aloud, of course; few even shortened it down to CSIRA , which the corpses would gladly have settled for. Nope. The Entropy Patrol . That was the name that had stuck. You could almost see the space-cadet uniforms. Desjardins had always thought that saving the world should engender a bit more respect.
"What makes you such an enculé today?" he grumbled as they stepped into the elevator.
Jovellanos blinked. "Sorry?"
"That whole scene back there."
"Don't you believe in truth in advertising? You don't hide any of that stuff. Mostly."
"I like to control the flow rate, though. Jesus." He punched Admin-6 . "Your timing was shitty."
"My timing was great. They want you upstairs now , Killjoy. I don't think I've ever seen Lertzman quite so invested in anything before. If I'd waited for you to go through your usual non-mating dance we'd have been down there 'til the icecaps refroze. Besides, you've got a real problem saying no. You could've ended up fucking her just to keep from hurting her feelings."
"I don't think her feelings are all that fragile."
"So what? Yours are."
The doors opened. Desjardins stepped through. Jovellanos hung back.
He looked at her, a trifle impatiently. "I thought we were in a hurry."
She shook her head. " You are. I'm not cleared for this. They just sent me to get you."
"What?"
"Just you."
"That's bullshit, Alice."
"They're being paranoid about this, Killjoy. I told you. Invested ."
The doors slid shut.
* * *
He stuck his finger into the bloodhound, winced at a brief stabbing pain. A physical sample. They weren't even trusting distance spec today.
After a moment an executive summary scrolled down the wall in three columns. On the left, a profile: blood type, pH, gas levels. On the right, an itemized list: platelets, fibrinogen, rbcs & wbcs, antibodies, hormones. All the parts of his lifeblood that had come from nature.
In the center, another list, somewhat shorter: the parts that had come from CSIRA.
Desjardins had learned to read the numbers, after a fashion. Everything looked in order. Of course, it was nice to have independent confirmation: the door in front of him was opening, and none of the others were slamming shut.
He stepped into the boardroom.
Three people were arrayed at the far end of the conference table. Lertzman sat in his usual seat at the head; to his left was a short blond woman Desjardins hadn't seen before. Which meant nothing, of course—he didn't know most of the people in admin.
To the blonde's left, another woman. Desjardins didn't know her either. She looked back at him through eyes that literally glittered—tactical contacts. She was only partly in the room. The rest of her was watching whatever overlays those lenses served up. At the edges of her mouth and around her mercurial eyes, faint lines and a slight droop to the right eyelid; otherwise the face was a pale and featureless sketch, a CaucAsian wash. Her dark hair grayed at the temples, a discoloration that seemed to spread infinitesimally as he watched.
The corpse from N'AmPac. Had to be.
Lertzman rose expectantly. The blonde started to follow his lead; halfway out of her chair she glanced at N'AmPac. N'AmPac did not stand. The blonde hesitated, wavered, sat back down. Lertzman cleared his throat and followed suit, waving Desjardins to a seat opposite the two women.
"This is Patricia Rowan," Lertzman said. When, after a few moments, it became obvious that nobody was going to introduce the blonde, Desjardins said, "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"On the contrary,"
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