DNA. Distant amplified voices muddied one another in the air. The NeoImagists were having their Darwin Days celebrations.
Steward decided he was tired of the game Griffith was playing. “What is it I won’t need the nerves for, Griffith?”
Griffith held up a hand for patience and lit a new cigarette from the old. “Okay,” he said. “Salesman isn’t all I do. I have a…another kind of job on the side.” He looked at Steward and smiled a jittery smile. “Maybe I can help you earn some money toward getting into Starbright.”
A feeling of nervous familiarity settled on Steward. He remembered sitting on his fuel-cell scooter back in Marseilles, hiding behind his shades and his big white jacket, talking to a boy and a girl who were dealing in suspect wetware, the sort that a lot of the Marseilles factions felt was ideologically incorrect. They were offering him a deal on it, but Steward wasn’t sure whether it was anything he wanted to handle.
Steward remembered the way the girl’s jewelry flashed in the sun, the boy’s stance, hands in pockets, feet in cowboy boots covered with silver wire and microcircuitry, and most of all Steward remembered the strange taste on his tongue. A taste of something he wanted, and something he was afraid of. The taste of a proposition that he wasn’t sure he was able to handle.
He looked at Griffith now and wondered what had really happened on Sheol. Whether anything he knew about the young Griffith had any relevance now. If Griffith had a grudge that went back to the war, and had planned to set Steward up for some long fall.
“NeoImagery,” an amplified voice said. “More than stepped-up evolution. More than a vision of life outside human parameters. More than anything you’ve ever dreamed.”
“What sort of moonlighting have you been up to?” Steward asked.
Griffith looked at him with a nervous smile. “I had a lot of medical bills,” he said. “Sheol wasn’t good to healthy young bodies.”
“You come back with a habit?”
Griffith seemed surprised. He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I breathed in some nerve toxins, some nasty bugs. Liver damage, kidney damage, pancreatitis. A scarred lung. That’s what the inhaler’s for.” He laughed. “A habit. Jesus. I can see where you might get that impression.” He puffed tobacco smoke. “No, I play thirdman. It’s a small operation, just between friends.”
“What sorts of things do you move?”
“Depends.” Griffith shrugged. “It’s pretty irregular. My friends and I ask around and see what’s wanted, what’s available. Take a cut. It’s all amateur league.” He squinted up at the sun and began moving across the park. Steward followed.
“What I have now,” he said, “is a package that I’ve got to deliver to LA. I was going to call someone else to deliver it, but since you’re here, I thought I’d throw the job your way if you want it.”
“What does this involve?”
“Flying to Los Angeles. Looking up some guy. Giving him the package, collecting the fee. Your cut is two percent, which should come to about two thousand dollars in Starbright scrip. That should help you to get into Starbright, if that’s what you want.”
Steward laughed. This situation was striking him as more familiar every minute. He could feel Canard reflexes coming back, fitting him like an old jacket. “Two percent is two thousand Starbright?” he asked. “That doesn’t strike me as amateur league.”
Griffith seemed annoyed. “Give me some credit, man. I run this operation, and my fee’s five percent. There’s a lot of competition here. For hell’s sake, it’s even legal. There’s no law against possessing what’s in the package, or trading in it. The cops might want to know where you got it, but you’d be within your rights to tell them to fuck off. I’d deliver the damn stuff myself if I weren’t tied up here all week.”
“Yeah. Okay. I see your point.” Steward looked up into the sky,
Steward decided he was tired of the game Griffith was playing. “What is it I won’t need the nerves for, Griffith?”
Griffith held up a hand for patience and lit a new cigarette from the old. “Okay,” he said. “Salesman isn’t all I do. I have a…another kind of job on the side.” He looked at Steward and smiled a jittery smile. “Maybe I can help you earn some money toward getting into Starbright.”
A feeling of nervous familiarity settled on Steward. He remembered sitting on his fuel-cell scooter back in Marseilles, hiding behind his shades and his big white jacket, talking to a boy and a girl who were dealing in suspect wetware, the sort that a lot of the Marseilles factions felt was ideologically incorrect. They were offering him a deal on it, but Steward wasn’t sure whether it was anything he wanted to handle.
Steward remembered the way the girl’s jewelry flashed in the sun, the boy’s stance, hands in pockets, feet in cowboy boots covered with silver wire and microcircuitry, and most of all Steward remembered the strange taste on his tongue. A taste of something he wanted, and something he was afraid of. The taste of a proposition that he wasn’t sure he was able to handle.
He looked at Griffith now and wondered what had really happened on Sheol. Whether anything he knew about the young Griffith had any relevance now. If Griffith had a grudge that went back to the war, and had planned to set Steward up for some long fall.
“NeoImagery,” an amplified voice said. “More than stepped-up evolution. More than a vision of life outside human parameters. More than anything you’ve ever dreamed.”
“What sort of moonlighting have you been up to?” Steward asked.
Griffith looked at him with a nervous smile. “I had a lot of medical bills,” he said. “Sheol wasn’t good to healthy young bodies.”
“You come back with a habit?”
Griffith seemed surprised. He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I breathed in some nerve toxins, some nasty bugs. Liver damage, kidney damage, pancreatitis. A scarred lung. That’s what the inhaler’s for.” He laughed. “A habit. Jesus. I can see where you might get that impression.” He puffed tobacco smoke. “No, I play thirdman. It’s a small operation, just between friends.”
“What sorts of things do you move?”
“Depends.” Griffith shrugged. “It’s pretty irregular. My friends and I ask around and see what’s wanted, what’s available. Take a cut. It’s all amateur league.” He squinted up at the sun and began moving across the park. Steward followed.
“What I have now,” he said, “is a package that I’ve got to deliver to LA. I was going to call someone else to deliver it, but since you’re here, I thought I’d throw the job your way if you want it.”
“What does this involve?”
“Flying to Los Angeles. Looking up some guy. Giving him the package, collecting the fee. Your cut is two percent, which should come to about two thousand dollars in Starbright scrip. That should help you to get into Starbright, if that’s what you want.”
Steward laughed. This situation was striking him as more familiar every minute. He could feel Canard reflexes coming back, fitting him like an old jacket. “Two percent is two thousand Starbright?” he asked. “That doesn’t strike me as amateur league.”
Griffith seemed annoyed. “Give me some credit, man. I run this operation, and my fee’s five percent. There’s a lot of competition here. For hell’s sake, it’s even legal. There’s no law against possessing what’s in the package, or trading in it. The cops might want to know where you got it, but you’d be within your rights to tell them to fuck off. I’d deliver the damn stuff myself if I weren’t tied up here all week.”
“Yeah. Okay. I see your point.” Steward looked up into the sky,
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