of the original odour I fell asleep to
only
…
“
Got
to go
,”
says Jimmy, and I’m about to ask him where when I
realise he means me and I’m. . .
Awake.
My eyes
snapped open on one of the psychedelic murals of the hotel room. Slim,
waif-like figures in kaftans dotted across a field of green grass and yellow
and white flowers. I frowned and clutched at the hardened scar tissue on my
forearm. No blood. With the realisation, I carne fully awake and sat up in the
big crimson bed. The shift in the smell of incense that had originally nudged
me towards consciousness was fully resolved into that of coffee and fresh
bread. The Hendrix’s olfactory wake-up call. Light was pouring into the
dimmed room through a flaw in the polarised glass of the window.
“You
have a visitor,” said the voice of the Hendrix briskly.
“What
time is it?” I croaked. The back of my throat seemed to have been
liberally painted with supercooled glue.
“Ten-sixteen,
locally. You have slept for seven hours and forty-two minutes.”
“And
my visitor?”
“Oumou
Prescott,” said the hotel. “Do you require breakfast?”
I got out
of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Yes. Coffee with milk, white meat,
well-cooked, and fruit juice of some kind. You can send Prescott up.”
By the time
the door chimed at me, I was out of the shower and padding around in an
iridescent blue bathrobe trimmed with gold braid. I collected my breakfast from
the service hatch and balanced the tray on one hand while I opened the door.
Oumou
Prescott was a tall, impressive-looking African woman, topping my sleeve by a
couple of centimetres, her hair braided back with dozens of oval glass beads in
seven or eight of my favourite colours and her cheekbones lined with some sort
of abstract tattooing. She stood on the threshold in a pale grey suit and a
long black coat turned up at the collar, and looked at me doubtfully.
“Mr.Kovacs.”
“Yes,
come in. Would you like some breakfast?” I laid the tray on the unmade
bed.
“No,
thank you. Mr.Kovacs, I am Laurens Bancroft’s principal legal
representative via the firm of Prescott, Forbes and Hernandez. Mr.Bancroft
informed me—”
“Yes,
I know.” I picked up a piece of grilled chicken from the tray.
“The
point is, Mr.Kovacs, we have an appointment with Dennis Nyman at PsychaSec
in…” Her eyes flicked briefly upward to consult a retinal watch. ”Thirty
minutes.”
“I
see,” I said, chewing slowly. “I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve
been calling since eight this morning, but the hotel refused to put me through.
I didn’t realise you would sleep so late.”
I grinned
at her through a mouthful of chicken. “Faulty research, then. I was only
sleeved yesterday.”
She
stiffened a little at that, but then a professional calm asserted itself. She
crossed the room and took a seat on the window shelf.
“We’ll
be late, then,” she said. “I guess you need breakfast.”
It was cold
in the middle of the Bay.
I climbed
out of the autocab into watery sunshine and a buffeting wind. It had rained
during the night, and there were still a few piles of grey cumulus skulking
around inland, sullenly resisting the attempts of a stiff sea breeze to sweep
them away. I turned up the collar of my summer suit and made a mental note to
buy a coat. Nothing serious, something coming to mid thigh with a collar and
pockets big enough to stuff your hands in.
Beside me,
Prescott was looking unbearably snug inside her coat. She paid off the cab with
a swipe of her thumb and we both stood back as it rose. A welcome rush of warm
air from the lift turbines washed over my hands and face. I blinked my eyes
against the small storm of grit and dust and saw how Prescott raised one
slender arm to do the same. Then the cab was gone, droning away to join the
beehive activity in the sky above the mainland. Prescott turned to the building
behind us and gestured with one laconic thumb.
“This
way.”
I pushed my
hands
only
…
“
Got
to go
,”
says Jimmy, and I’m about to ask him where when I
realise he means me and I’m. . .
Awake.
My eyes
snapped open on one of the psychedelic murals of the hotel room. Slim,
waif-like figures in kaftans dotted across a field of green grass and yellow
and white flowers. I frowned and clutched at the hardened scar tissue on my
forearm. No blood. With the realisation, I carne fully awake and sat up in the
big crimson bed. The shift in the smell of incense that had originally nudged
me towards consciousness was fully resolved into that of coffee and fresh
bread. The Hendrix’s olfactory wake-up call. Light was pouring into the
dimmed room through a flaw in the polarised glass of the window.
“You
have a visitor,” said the voice of the Hendrix briskly.
“What
time is it?” I croaked. The back of my throat seemed to have been
liberally painted with supercooled glue.
“Ten-sixteen,
locally. You have slept for seven hours and forty-two minutes.”
“And
my visitor?”
“Oumou
Prescott,” said the hotel. “Do you require breakfast?”
I got out
of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Yes. Coffee with milk, white meat,
well-cooked, and fruit juice of some kind. You can send Prescott up.”
By the time
the door chimed at me, I was out of the shower and padding around in an
iridescent blue bathrobe trimmed with gold braid. I collected my breakfast from
the service hatch and balanced the tray on one hand while I opened the door.
Oumou
Prescott was a tall, impressive-looking African woman, topping my sleeve by a
couple of centimetres, her hair braided back with dozens of oval glass beads in
seven or eight of my favourite colours and her cheekbones lined with some sort
of abstract tattooing. She stood on the threshold in a pale grey suit and a
long black coat turned up at the collar, and looked at me doubtfully.
“Mr.Kovacs.”
“Yes,
come in. Would you like some breakfast?” I laid the tray on the unmade
bed.
“No,
thank you. Mr.Kovacs, I am Laurens Bancroft’s principal legal
representative via the firm of Prescott, Forbes and Hernandez. Mr.Bancroft
informed me—”
“Yes,
I know.” I picked up a piece of grilled chicken from the tray.
“The
point is, Mr.Kovacs, we have an appointment with Dennis Nyman at PsychaSec
in…” Her eyes flicked briefly upward to consult a retinal watch. ”Thirty
minutes.”
“I
see,” I said, chewing slowly. “I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve
been calling since eight this morning, but the hotel refused to put me through.
I didn’t realise you would sleep so late.”
I grinned
at her through a mouthful of chicken. “Faulty research, then. I was only
sleeved yesterday.”
She
stiffened a little at that, but then a professional calm asserted itself. She
crossed the room and took a seat on the window shelf.
“We’ll
be late, then,” she said. “I guess you need breakfast.”
It was cold
in the middle of the Bay.
I climbed
out of the autocab into watery sunshine and a buffeting wind. It had rained
during the night, and there were still a few piles of grey cumulus skulking
around inland, sullenly resisting the attempts of a stiff sea breeze to sweep
them away. I turned up the collar of my summer suit and made a mental note to
buy a coat. Nothing serious, something coming to mid thigh with a collar and
pockets big enough to stuff your hands in.
Beside me,
Prescott was looking unbearably snug inside her coat. She paid off the cab with
a swipe of her thumb and we both stood back as it rose. A welcome rush of warm
air from the lift turbines washed over my hands and face. I blinked my eyes
against the small storm of grit and dust and saw how Prescott raised one
slender arm to do the same. Then the cab was gone, droning away to join the
beehive activity in the sky above the mainland. Prescott turned to the building
behind us and gestured with one laconic thumb.
“This
way.”
I pushed my
hands
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