Altered Carbon by Richard Morgan Page A

into the inadequate pockets of my suit and followed her lead. Bent
slightly into the wind, we picked our way up the long, winding steps to
PsychaSec Alcatraz.
    I’d
expected a high-security installation, and I wasn’t disappointed.
PsychaSec was laid out in a series of long, low double-storey modules with
deeply recessed windows reminiscent of a military command bunker. The only
break in this pattern was a single dome at the western end which I guessed had
to house the satellite uplink gear. The whole complex was a pale granite grey
and the windows a smoky reflectant orange. There was no holodisplay, or
broadcast publicity, in fact nothing to announce we’d got the right place
except a sober plaque laser-engraved into the sloping stone wall of the entrance
block:
     
    PsychaSec
S.A.
    ________________
     
    D.H.F.
Retrieval and Secure Holding
    Clonic
Re-sleeving
     
    Above the
plaque was a small black sentry eye flanked by heavily grilled speakers. Oumou
Prescott raised her arm and waved at it.
    “Welcome
to PsychaSec Alcatraz,” said a construct voice briskly. “Please
identify yourself within the fifteen-second security time limit.”
    “Oumou
Prescott and Takeshi Kovacs to see Director Nyman. We have an
appointment.”
    A thin,
green scanning laser flickered over us both from head to foot and then a
section of the wall hinged smoothly back and down forming a passage inside.
Glad to get out of the wind, I stepped nimbly into the niche and followed
orange runway lights down a short corridor into a reception area, leaving
Prescott to bring up the rear. As soon as we stepped off the walkway and into
reception, the massive door slab rumbled upright and closed again. Solid
security.
    Reception
was a circular, warmly lit area with banks of seats and low tables set at the
cardinal compass points. There were small groups of people seated north and
east, conversing in low tones. In the centre was a circular desk where a
receptionist sat behind a battery of secretarial equipment. No artificial
constructs here; this was a real human being, a slim young man barely out of
his teens who looked up with intelligent eyes as we approached.
    “You
can go right through, Ms.Prescott. The Director’s office is up the stairs
and third door on your right.”
    “Thank
you.” Prescott took the lead again, turning back briefly to mutter as
soon as we were out of earshot of the receptionist, “Nyman’s a bit
impressed with himself since this place was built, but he’s basically a
good person. Try not to let him irritate you.”
    “Sure.”
    We followed
the receptionist’s instructions until, outside the aforementioned door I
had to stop and suppress a snigger. Nyman’s door, no doubt in the best
possible Earth taste, was pure mirrorwood from top to bottom. After the
high-profile security system and flesh and blood reception, it seemed about as
subtle as the vaginal spittoons at Madame Mi’s Wharfwhore Warehouse. My
amusement must have been evident because Prescott gave me a frown as she
knocked on the door.
    “Come.”
    Sleep had
done wonders for the interface between my mind and my new sleeve. Composing my
rented features, I followed Prescott into the room.
    Nyman was
at his desk, ostensibly working at a grey and green coloured holodisplay. He
was a thin, serious-looking man who affected steel-rimmed external eyelenses to
go with his expensively cut black suit and short, tidy hair. His expression,
behind the lenses, was slightly resentful. He’d not been happy when
Prescott phoned him from the cab to say we would be delayed, but Bancroft had
obviously been in touch with him because he accepted the later appointment time
with the stiff acquiescence of a disciplined child.
    “Since
you have requested a viewing of our facilities here, Mr.Kovacs, shall we start?
I have cleared my agenda for the next couple of hours, but I do have clients
waiting.”
    Something
about Nyman’s manner brought Warden Sullivan to mind, but it was