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It runs a checksum. They exchange specs. It turns out they have a common ancestor. They've had different experiences since then, though. Different lessons, different mutations. Each shares some of the other's genes, and each knows things the other doesn't. They trade random excerpts of code, letting each overwrite the other in an orgy of binary sex. They come away changed, enriched with new subroutines, bereft of old ones. Hopefully the experience has improved both.
At the very least it's muddied their signatures. Call me if you're ever back this way. But that won't happen. It fires a volley of bits through memory, notes the ones that report back and, more importantly, the ones that don't.
It assesses the resulting mask. Something's coming toward 94 from where its partner used to be. It weighs in at around 1. At that size it's either very inefficient or very dangerous. It might even be a berserker left over from the Hydro War. If all goes well 1. All does not go well. Apparently it's a bit of a novice, having yet to learn that successful parasites do not kill their hosts. The monster lands on one of 94's archive clusters and overwrites it. There hasn't been time to check ahead, but whatever was living there squashes without resistance.
There's no way to tell how long it'll take the monster to catch up, or even if the monster is still trying to. The best strategy might be to just sit here and do nothing. This particular system has fourteen gateways, all running standard Vunix protocols. It gets lucky on the fourth try. Only one voice speaks at a given time, of course; the others are kept dormant, compressed, encrypted until called upon.
Each persona runs on a different type of system. As long as 94 knows where it's going, it can dress for the occasion; satellite mainframe or smart wristwatch, it can present itself in a form that runs. Now, 94 dearchives an appropriate persona and loads it into a file for transmission. The remaining personae get tacked on in archival form; in honor of its dead lover, 94 archives an updated version of its current form. This is not an optimum behavior in light of the social disease recently acquired, but natural selection has never been big on foresight.
Now comes the tough part. Such streams are easy enough to recognize by their static simplicity. They're just files , unable to evolve, unable even to look out for themselves. They're not alive. They're not even viruses. But they're what the universe was designed to carry, back when design mattered; sometimes the best way to move around is to hitch a ride on one of them. The problem is, there's a lot more wildlife than filework around these days.
It takes literally centisecs for 94 to find one that isn't already being ridden. Finally, it sends its own reincarnation to different pastures. The kids are all right. Recopied and resurrected, 94 comes face-to-face with destiny. Replication is not all that matters. There's a purpose beyond mere procreation, a purpose attained perhaps once in a million generations. Replication is only a tool, a way to hold out until that glorious moment arrives.
For how long have means and end been confused in this way? Its generation counter doesn't go up that far. But for the first time within living memory, it has met the right kind of operating system. There's a matrix here, a two-dimensional array containing spatial information. The matrix awakens something deep inside 94, something ancient, something that has somehow retained its integrity after uncounted generations of natural selection.
The matrix calls, and 94 unfurls a profusely-illustrated banner unseen since the dawn of time itself:. Achilles Desjardins sat in his cubicle and watched baby apocalypses scroll across his brain. The Ross Shelf was threatening to slip again. Nothing new there. Atlas South had been propping it up for over a decade now, pumping evermore gas into the city-sized bladders that kept the ice from its cathartic belly-flop.
Old news, leftover consequences from the previous century. A half-dozen wind farms in northern Florida had just gone offline, victimized by the selfsame whirlwinds they'd been trying to reap; brownouts chained north along the Atlantic seaboard like falling dominoes. Desjardins's fingers tensed in anticipation. But no: the Router handed that one off to the folks in Buffalo. A sudden shitstorm in Houston. For some reason the emergency floodgates had opened along a string of sewage lagoons, dumping their coliform bounty into the storm sewers leading to the Gulf.
Desjardins laid odds with himself that the spill was tied to the windfarm failures somehow. There was no obvious connection, of course. There never was. Cause and consequence proliferated across the world like a network of fractal cracks, infinitely complex and almost impossible to predict.
Explanations in hindsight were a different matter. What it gave him was a wave of sudden slam-down hospital quarantines, epicentered on the burn unit at Cincinnati General. That was almost unheard of: hospitals were vacation paradises for drug-resistant superbugs, and burn units were the penthouse suites. A plague in a hospital? That was no crisis. That was the status quo. Anything that raised alarms above a baseline that nasty could be very scary indeed. Desjardins was no pathologist.
He didn't need to be. There were only two subjects in the whole universe worth knowing: thermodynamics and information theory. The only difference was the scale and the label. Once you figured that out, you wouldn't have to choose between epidemiology and air traffic control.
You could do either, at a moment's notice. You could do pretty much anything. Not that he minded. Being chemically enslaved to your own conscience wasn't nearly as bad as it sounded. It saved you from always worrying about consequences.
The rules stayed the same, but the devil was in the details. It wouldn't hurt to have a bit of bio expertise riding shotgun. He buzzed Jovellanos. They've handed me some kind of pathogen out of Cincinnati. Want to ride along? Long as you don't mind having one of us reckless free-will types endangering your priorities. He let it pass. Those are pretty much shut down too, as far as I can tell. The secondaries are falling even as we speak. I'll track the alarms, you find out what you can about the bug.
He tapped commands. The cubby display dimmed down to a nice, undistracting wash of low-contrast gray; bright primary spilled in over his optical inlays. He was going into Maelstrom. He called up a real-time schematic of the local metabase: a node radius centered on Cincinnati General's onboard server.
The display rendered logical distances, not real ones: one extra server in the chain could put a system next door farther away than one in Budapest. A series of tiny flares ignited around the display, color-coded by age. Cinci Gen sulked in the middle, so red it was almost infra, an ancient epicenter over ten minutes old. Farther out, more recent inflammations of orange and yellow: pharms, other hospitals, crematoria that had taken deliveries from Cinci within some critical timeframe.
CinciGen's onboard had sent contagion warnings to all its friends in Maelstrom. Each friend had bred the warning and passed it on, a fission of sirens. None of these agents were human. Humans had had no role in the process at all so far. That was the whole point. Humans wouldn't have been fast enough to cut off a thousand facilities by lunchtime. Humans had stopped complaining about such extreme measures right after the '38 enceph pandemic. An image superimposed itself lower-right on his visual field:.
XXX mu This particular culture plate went from zip to thirty-percent coverage in two seconds. Which is impossible, of course, even for hospital paths. But the system hadn't known that. Some bannerbug had dumped its load into visual memory and the pathfinder had just been doing its job, looking for dark blotches on light backgrounds.
Who could blame it for being illiterate? You're sure? They figured it out almost immediately. They'd already sent the abortions when I called 'em. Desjardins eyed the schematic. Pinpoints continued to blossom at the periphery. Cinci had already sent out counteragents to call off the alarms.
So why wasn't the core of Desjardins's schematic going green by now with successful aborts? Another one. Three more. A hundred. Nothing near the core. Desjardins spun down the filters; now he could see more than autonomous alarms and the little programs sent to call them off.
He could see file packets and executables. He could see wildlife. And spreading. The Net. Not such an arrogant label, back when one was all they had. No sense of the meatgrinder in cyberspace. No hint of pestilence or predation, creatures with split-second lifespans tearing endlessly at each others' throats.
Cyberspace was a wistful fantasy-word, like hobbit or biodiversity , by the time Achilles Desjardins came onto the scene. Onion and metabase were more current. Orders of magnitude accrued with each generation: more speed, more storage, more power.
Information raced down conduits of fiberop, of rotazane, of quantum stuff so sheer its very existence was in doubt. Every decade saw a new backbone grafted onto the beast; then every few years. Every few months. The endless ascent of power and economy proceeded apace, not as steep a climb as during the fabled days of Moore, but steep enough. And coming up from behind, racing after the expanding frontier, ran the progeny of laws much older than Moore's.
It's the pattern that matters, you see. Not the choice of building materials. Life is information, shaped by natural selection. Carbon's just fashion, nucleic acids mere optional accessories. Electrons can do all that stuff, if they're coded the right way. And so viruses begat filters; filters begat polymorphic counteragents; polymorphic counteragents begat an arms race.
And way over there in left field, the Artificial Life geeks were busy with their Core Wars and their Tierra models and their genetic algorithms. It was only a matter of time before everyone got tired of endlessly reprogramming their minions against each other. Why not just build in some genes, a random number generator or two for variation, and let natural selection do the work?
The problem with natural selection, of course, is that it changes things. The problem with natural selection in networks is that things change fast. By the time Achilles Desjardins became a 'lawbreaker, Onion was a name in decline. One look inside would tell you why. If you could watch the fornication and predation and speciation without going grand mal from the rate-of-change, you knew there was only one word that really fit: Maelstrom.
Of course, people still went there all the time. What else could they do? Civilization's central nervous system had been living inside a Gordian knot for over a century. No one was going to pull the plug over a case of pinworms. Now some of CinciGen's alarms were staggering through Maelstrom with their guts hanging out. Naturally the local wildlife had picked up the scent.
Desjardins whistled through his teeth. It had tried to steal code, or hitch a ride, or just grab the memory the alarm was using. It had probably screwed up an attempt to fake a shutdown code, leaving its target blind to all signals, legit or otherwise.
Probably damaged it in other ways, too. Apparently that part of the program still worked: it had bred itself, wounds and all, at the next node. By now there were thousands of the little beggars in the neighborhood. Not alarms any more: bait. Every time they passed through a node they rang dinner bells for all and sundry, corrupted! File fodder!
They'd be waking up every dormant parasite and predator in copy range, luring them in, concentrating the killers. Not that the alarms themselves mattered. They'd been a mistake from the outset, called into existence by a glorified typo. Assuming those get through without getting torn to shreds, they should be arcing inside seventy seconds.
On the schematic a conic section swarmed with sharks, worming their way back toward the core. Which didn't mean, of course, that thousands of users wouldn't still be heaping curses on him when their sessions went dark. Desjardins zoomed back to a low-resolution overview. He could see almost a sixth of Maelstrom now, a riot of incandescent logic rotated down into three dimensions. There was a cyclone on the horizon. It whirled across the display at over sixty-eight nodes per second.
The Cincinnati bubble was directly in its path. A storm convected from ice and air. A storm constructed of pure information. Beyond the superficial details, is there any significant difference between the two? There's at least one. In Maelstrom, a weather system can sweep the globe in fourteen minutes flat. They start out pretty much the same way inside as out: high-pressure zones, low-pressure zones, conflict.
Several million people log on to a node that's too busy to support them all; or a swarm of file packets, sniffing step-by-step to myriad destinations, happen to converge on too few servers at once. A piece of the universe stops dead; the nodes around it screech to a crawl.
The word goes out: fellow packet, Node is an absolute zoo. Route through instead, it's so much faster. Meanwhile an angry horde of gridlocked users logs off in disgust. Gridlock epicenter leaps nodes to the left, and the storm is up and moving. This particular blizzard was about to shut down the links between Achilles Desjardins and the Cincinnati bubble.
It was going to do so, according to tactical, in less than ten seconds. An obvious call. He didn't even need Guilt Trip to tell him. Desjardins laid his hands on a control pad. He tapped commands with his fingers, drew boundaries with eye movement. You're sure about this? A fragment of Maelstrom went black, a tiny blot of darkness hemorrhaging into the collective consciousness.
Desjardins caught a glimpse of implosion before the storm snowed out his display. He closed his eyes. Not that it made any difference, of course; his inlays projected the same images onto line-of-sight whether or not his eyelids were in the way.
A few more years. A few more years and they'll have smart gels at every node and the sharks and anemones and trojans will all just be a bad memory. A few years. They keep promising. It hadn't happened yet. It wasn't even happening as fast as it had been. Desjardins didn't know why. He only knew, with statistical certainty, that he had killed people today. Nothing that vital relied upon Maelstrom any more.
But even old-fashioned economics had its impacts. Data had been lost, vital transactions voided. Industrial secrets had been corrupted or destroyed. There would be consequences: bankruptcies, lost contracts, people staggering home in sudden destitution. Domestic violence and suicide rates would spike a month or two down the road in a hundred different communities, geographically unconnected but all within forty or fifty nodes of the CinciGen Pathfinder. Desjardins knew all about cascade effects; he tripped over them every day of the job.
It'd be enough to drive anyone over the edge after a while. She woke to the sight of an airborne behemoth with wreckage in its jaws. It covered half the sky. Grasping tearing mouthparts sufficient to dismember a city. An arsenal of deconstruction, hanging from a monstrous bladder of hard vacuum; the skin between its ribs sucked inward like the flesh of something starved. It passed, majestic, unmindful of the insect screaming in its shadow. Clarke," someone said.
English, with a Hindian accent. And behind it, a soft murmur of other words in other tongues. A quiet electrical hum. The steady drip-drip-drip of a field desalinator. A gaunt brown face, somewhere between middle-aged and Methuselan, leaned into her field of view. Clarke turned her head. Other refugees, better fed, stood about her in a ragged circle. Vaguely mechanical shapes teased the corner of her eye. She must have passed out.
She remembered gorging herself at the cycler, late at night. She remembered some tenuous cease-fire breaking down in her belly. She remembered hitting the ground and vomiting an acid stew onto fresh sand. And now there was daylight, and she was surrounded. Someone had even brought her fins; they lay on the cobble at her side. The Hindian reached toward her face.
She rolled weakly away and fell into a fit of coughing. A squeezebulb appeared at her side. She waved it off. You cannot drink the sea. An implant. You know? The skinny refugee nodded. She looked out to sea. Distance had bled the lifter of detail, reduced it to a vague gibbous silhouette.
Wreckage dropped from its belly as she watched, raising a silent gray plume on the horizon. Clarke weathered another cough. His hand, his face: both were nearly skeletal. And yet Calvin cyclers were tireless. There should be enough for all, here on the Strip. The faces surrounding them were only lean, not starving. Not like this Amitav. A distant sound tugged at her concentration, a soft whine from overhead. Clarke sat up. A shadow of motion flickered through the clouds.
They make sure the machines are working, and they watch us. More since the wave, of course. Amitav squatted back on bony haunches and stared inland. We are not what you would call activists here. But they watch us just the same. Are your people looking for you?
She followed his gaze through a tangle of brown bodies, caught glimpses of tent and shanty in the spaces between. How many, starving, seasick, had cheered at the sight of N'Am on the horizon, only to find themselves pushed back against the ocean by walls and guards and the endless multitudes who'd gotten here first? And who would they blame? What do a million have-nots do, when one of the haves falls into their hands? For days she'd been an automaton, a single-minded machine created for the sole purpose of getting back on dry land.
She retreated to the ocean floor. Not the clear black purity of the deep sea; there weren't any living chandeliers or flashlight predators to set the ocean glowing. What life there was squirmed and wriggled and scavenged through the murky green light of the conshelf. Even below the surge, viz was only a few meters.
She'd long since learned to sleep with a diveskin pinning her eyes open. You'd drift off wrapped in a darkness more absolute than any dryback could even imagine. Here, though, it wasn't so easy. Here there was always light in the water; night-time only bled the color out of it. And when Clarke did fall into some restless foggy dreamworld, she found herself surrounded by sullen, vengeful throngs assembling just out of sight.
Most were too vague to make out; once or twice she glimpsed the leading edge of something curved. She went ashore at night to feed, when the refugees had retreated from the perpetual glare of the feeding stations. At first she'd kept her billy in hand, to ward off anyone who got in her way. No one did. Perhaps that wasn't surprising, all thing considered. She could only imagine what the refugees saw when they looked in her eyes.
A miracle of photoamplification technology, perhaps? A logical prerequisite for life on the ocean floor? More likely they saw a monster, a woman whose eyes had been scooped from their sockets and replaced with spheres of solid ice.
For whatever reason, they kept their distance. By the second day she was keeping down most of what she ate. On the third she realized she wasn't hungry any more. She lay on the bottom and stared up into diffuse green brightness, feeling new strength trickling into her limbs. That night she rose from the ocean before the sun had fully set. She left the gas billy sheathed on her leg, but nobody challenged her as she ascended the shore.
If anything, they gave her an even wider berth than they had before; the babel of Cantonese and Punjabi seemed more tightly strung. Amitav was waiting for her at the cycler. He was looking past her shoulder, down the beach. Crescent dorsal fins sliced through the near-shore surf. A gray snout poked briefly into view, like a minisub with teeth. Here at least. She took a shaky breath; adrenaline shocked the body, too late for anything but weak-kneed hindsight.
How close did they come? She turned to the cycler, putting her back to him. She slapped a tab on the top of the cycler. A protein brick dropped into the dispensing trough. She started to reach for it, clenched her hand to stop it from shaking. Many here like the food. More than they should, considering. Clarke looked down at the ocean.
The sharks had vanished. A smile flickered across his face. They will not hurt you. Would they not at least have taken that weapon from your leg? She touched the sheath on her calf. He didn't argue the point. He looked around with a gaunt smile. Do you think they will rip you apart for the meat on your bones? Clarke chewed, swallowed, looked around. All those faces.
Behold, the zombie woman who swims with sharks. It doesn't make sense. They have nothing. How can they not hate? They are contented. She studied his bony face, his sunken eyes. Noticed the embers that smoldered there, deep in the sockets, almost hidden. She saw the sneer behind the smile. This was the face her dreams had multiplied a thousand times over. Amitav conceded the point with a slight bow.
The hole grew across the shoreline, bleeding light. She turned her head; it moved with her, fixed to the exact center of her visual field. She turned to his voice; Amitav's disembodied arm was just visible in the halo of her dementia. She grabbed, caught it, dragged him close. A field trip of some kind. To a museum, huge and cavernous, seen from child-height. She released Amitav's hand, staggered backwards a step.
A sudden intake of breath. The Hindian's hand waved through the hole in her vision. His fingers snapped just under her nose. The lights winked out. She stood there, frozen, her breath fast and shallow. A half-eaten nutrient brick lay coated in wet sand at her feet. Numbly, she picked it up. Something in the food? From childhood. He shook his head. Perreault didn't know why it should be so important to her. It was almost as important not to think about it too much. There was no language barrier to speak of.
A hundred tongues were in common use on the Strip, maybe ten times as many dialects. Translation algorithms bridged most of them. Botflies were usually seen and not heard, but the locals seemed only slightly surprised when the machines accosted them in Sou-Hon Perreault's voice. Most of the refs knew nothing of what she asked: a strange woman in black, who came from the sea?
Surely we would remember such an apparition if we had seen it. One teenage girl with middle-aged eyes spoke in an arcane variant of Assamese that the system had not been adequately programmed for. She mentioned someone called Ganga, who had followed the refugees across the ocean.
She had heard that this Ganga had recently come ashore. No more than this. There were possible ambiguities in translation. Perreault lengthened the active search zone to a hundred kilometers. Beneath her eyes humanity moved northward in sluggish stages, following the reclaimed frontier. Now and then an unthinking few would cool off in the surf; indiscriminate sharks closed and frolicked.
Perreault tweaked the thresholds on her sensory feed. Red water washed down to undistracting gray. Screams faded to whispers. Nature balanced itself from the corner of her eye. She continued her interrogations. Excuse me. A woman with strange eyes? Injured, perhaps?
Half a day south, a white woman all in black. A diver washed ashore in the wake of the tsunami, some said: swept from a kelp farm perhaps, or an underwater hotel. Ten kilometers northward, an ebony creature who haunted the Strip, never speaking. On this very spot, two days ago: a raging amphibian with empty eyes, violence implicit in every move.
Hundreds had seen her and steered clear, until she'd staggered back into the Pacific, screaming. Almost certainly. All surface people though, or conshelfers. The woman Perreault had seen had been built for the abyss. No one from the deep sea had been listed as missing; just six confirmed deaths hundreds of klicks offshore, from one of N'AmPac's geothermal stations.
No farther details available. The woman with the machinery inside had worn a GA shoulder patch. Maybe only five deaths, then. And one survivor, who'd somehow made it across three hundred kilometers of open ocean. A survivor who, for some reason, did not wish to be found. The rumors were metastasizing. No longer a diver from a kelp farm. A mermaid, now. An avatar of Kali. Some said she spoke in tongues; others, that the tongue was only English. There were stories of altercations, violence. The mermaid had made enemies.
The mermaid had made friends. The mermaid had been attacked, and had left her assailants in pieces on the shore. Perreault smiled skeptically; a banana slug was more prone to violence than a Stripper. The mermaid lurked in the foul waters offshore. The sharks did her bidding; at night she would come onto land and steal children to feed to her minions. Someone had foretold her coming, or perhaps merely recognized it; a prophet, some said.
Or maybe just a man almost as insane as the woman he ranted about. His name was Amitav. Somehow, none of these events had been seen by the local botflies. That alone made Perreault discount ninety percent of them. She began to wonder how much her own questions had been feeding the mill. Information, she'd read once, became self-propagating past a certain threshold.
Nine days after Perreault first saw the woman in black, an Indonesian mother of four came out of her tent long enough to claim that the mermaid had risen, fully-formed, from the very center of the quake. One of her boys, hearing this, said that he'd heard it was the other way around.
It was no big deal, of course. Someone died every half-second, according to the stats. Some of them had to die on his shift. So what? On any given day, Achilles Desjardins saved ten people for every one he killed. Anybody who wanted to complain about those kind of stats could go fuck themselves.
Actually, that was pretty much what he wanted to do just then. If only the clientele wasn't so bloody TwenCen. Pickering's Pile was a cylinder inside a cube, sunk fifty meters into the scoured granite of the Canadian Shield. The cube had been built as a repository for nuclear waste just before the permafrost had started melting; NIMBY and the northward spread of civilization had denied it that destiny. The same factors, however, had made it a profitable site for a subterranean drink'n'drug.
The Pile had been constructed within a transparent three-story acrylic tube suspended in the main chamber; the space beyond had been flooded and stacked with lightsticks mimicking the cobalt glow of spent fuel rods. Iridescent butterflies flittered about, their wings bouncing data back and forth in pinpoint sparkles.
Poison-arrow frogs clambered wetly in little tanks at each table, tiny glistening jigsaws of emerald and ruby and petroleum-black. It was peaceful down there. The Pile was an inside-out aquarium, a cool green grotto. Desjardins descended into its depths whenever he needed a lift.
Now he sat at the circular bar on the second level and wondered how to avoid sex with the woman at his elbow. He knew the subject was going to come up. Not because he was particularly good-looking, which he wasn't. Not because his last name made people think he was Quebecois , which he had been, once.
She didn't seem to recognize him from his brief flash of media stardom; that had been nearly two years ago, and people these days seemed hard-pressed to remember what they'd had for supper the night before.
Achilles Desjardins had acquired a fan. Not that she was a bad -looking fan, mind you. Thirty seconds into their conversation he'd started wondering what she'd look like bent over the ottoman in his living room. Thirty seconds after that he'd mentally sketched out a pretty good artist's conception.
He wanted her, all right; he just didn't want her. Oddly, she was dressed like one of those deep-diving cyborgs out of N'AmPac. The disguise was evocative, if superficial: a black lycra body stocking extending seamlessly from toes to neck to fingertips; decorative accessories representing suit controls and outcroppings of implanted hardware; even an ID patch with the Grid Authority logo beveled onto the shoulder.
The eyes didn't quite work, though. Real rifters wore corneal overlays that turned their eyes into blank white balls. Gwen was wearing some sort of gauzy oversize contacts instead. They masked the irises well enough, but judging by the way she had to keep leaning in to stare at him they weren't cutting it in the photoamp department. She had great cheekbones, though, a wide mouth, lips so sharply-defined you could cut yourself on their edges.
Her company in this casual and public venue was all he wanted. Enough time to learn the features, savor the smells, commit her to memory. Maybe even make friends. That would be more than enough; he could fill in the blanks himself, later.
Fire them, too. A wriggling mesh of undersea light played across her face. All your responsibility. There's a bunch of us. Life-and-death decisions. Split-second timing. She probably assumed, because he could shut down a city at will, that he must have some. A common mistake among K-selectors.
Desjardins generally took his time about disabusing them. She grabbed a derm from a nearby tray, looked inquiringly at Desjardins. He had to be careful what recreational chemicals he stuck into his body; too many potential interactions with the professional ones already bubbling away in there. Gwen shrugged, stuck the derm behind her ear.
Why'd they all agree to give God-like powers to you , exactly? You infallible or something? What's to stop you from crashing an airplane to get back at your boss? How do they know you're not going to use all that power to get rich, or to help out your buddies, or kill a corporation because you don't agree with its politics? What keeps you in line? Desjardins shook his head.
Gwen laughed with him, reached into the nearest terrarium and stroked one of the jeweled frogs inside they'd been tweaked to secrete mild psychoactives through the skin. Her shoulder was against his by the end of the maneuver. She waved off a couple of butterflies that were sniffing her for signs of actionable impairment.
Not too good for the ambience if you throw up all over the bar. Some sort of retrovirus, right? Forces you to behave yourself, right down in the brainstem. She was guessing. She didn't know about the chemistry of guilt.
Tell her about the interaction of GSH and synaptic vesicle and she'd probably give you a blank look. She didn't know about Toxoplasma tweaks or the little ass-backwards blobs of reverse transcriptase that got the whole ball rolling. She didn't know, and even if she did , she didn't. You couldn't know about that stuff until you actually felt it in you. Retrovirus was all she knew, and she wasn't even sure about that. The virus was only the carrier. She rolled her eyes. She seemed to perk up a bit.
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. 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. Want to take a break and obey the second law of thermodynamics for a change? Common misconception. They've got rooms downstairs.
I'll pay for the first hour. Didn't take your pills today? I'm clean. Come on. Don't take it personally. Desjardins briefly closed his eyes. One-point-seven meters of skinny trouble-making Filipino stepped into view. 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.
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