half-smile.
"Hello," he said, blue eyes looking right into blue eyes. "You should be able to hear me. They said you should. I won't hear you, so."
He shrugged.
"I don't know if you're in there, I don't feel you, but I feel something. Like a, like a something, an ache. Like when you have the flu coming. Is that you? I hope so. I don't want the flu. I have had shots, also."
He leaned closer, still staring.
"I just wanted to say hello, because the chances are we will not have a moment like this again. You talk to yourself in front of your guys, they tend to take your gun away and reassign you to food services. We're not going to be alone much from this point on."
He grinned more broadly, and held out a mocking hand to his reflection, as if to shake.
"My name is Bloom. Nestor Bloom. Pleased to meet you. Freek ® alone knows what your name is. I don't get told that. But it's good to have you along. Just keep it down in there, okay?"
The door opened behind him. Two troopers came in.
"Hey, Nestor! My main guy!" said one.
"We are going for it," said the other, shorter, Hispanic. "Into the Hard Place! We gonna show those mothers our A game, man!"
Laughter. Palm-slaps.
He had too many questions. He had a sick feeling deep down, the nasty burn of adrenaline. He didn't want to turn away from the sinks, but he was turning away from the sinks. He didn't want to take a piss, but he was taking a piss. What the fuck? What the fuck? It was as if he was paralysed, moving , but paralysed. He was willing himself to do things and his body was doing something else. It was making him crazy, insane with claustrophobia.
With a final, titanic effort, he made a sound.
"You okay there, Nestor?" asked the Hispanic trooper, hosing a long stream into the metal trough, hands on hips.
"Yeah."
"You gonna puke, man?"
"No, I'm okay," he replied. "Just a little heartburn."
"Sounded like you were retching, Nestor. Like you were going to puke."
"Just freeking ® heartburn, man," he replied, patting his chest, smiling. Not smiling inside. "I'm wealthy."
The little Hispanic came over. He knew his name before he read his brooch. Valdes. Valdes's expression was that of a long-suffering brother-in-law.
"You ever going to get that ling patch lifted out of you, man?" Valdes asked. "You know you don't have to worry about no harsh language where we're going."
"The Hard Place, Nestor," said the other trooper. "No dummy rounds, it's live language out there, you know?"
"I'm going to get it lifted," he said.
"Good, that's good," said Valdes.
"You're SOMD, you better cuss like a motherfucker," said the other man. "Not like some fucking adfomercial."
"You coming?" asked Valdes, heading for the exit.
"I'll be right along."
They left him alone. He turned and looked back into himself in the mirror.
"You do not pull that freek ® again, you hear?" he said. "Whatever that was you did. You do not do that. You just ride along. Ride along. Do not freek ® with me again."
Glares on, he walked into stores, out of the hard light. It wasn't even 6.30am. The air was beginning to carry dust, like shot silk. The blue of the sky had faded, weathered. Out on the west side of Lasky, boomers were running ignition checks, making an unholy row like a fleet of brushcutters.
He'd worked out what was so disconcerting. His POV, his eye level, was about eight inches higher than he was used to. It was a small but significant defamiliarisation. It made him feel seasick.
There were about ten staffers managing the points of service. Each one was using a Mil-issue celf to swipe ID brooches and call up the spec-tailored requisites from the manifest. From initial swipe and confirm, it took about forty seconds for the plastic-wrapped kit sets, fieldpacks and webbing to come down the belt. Body armour harnesses and torso rigs came out on an electric rail a
"Hello," he said, blue eyes looking right into blue eyes. "You should be able to hear me. They said you should. I won't hear you, so."
He shrugged.
"I don't know if you're in there, I don't feel you, but I feel something. Like a, like a something, an ache. Like when you have the flu coming. Is that you? I hope so. I don't want the flu. I have had shots, also."
He leaned closer, still staring.
"I just wanted to say hello, because the chances are we will not have a moment like this again. You talk to yourself in front of your guys, they tend to take your gun away and reassign you to food services. We're not going to be alone much from this point on."
He grinned more broadly, and held out a mocking hand to his reflection, as if to shake.
"My name is Bloom. Nestor Bloom. Pleased to meet you. Freek ® alone knows what your name is. I don't get told that. But it's good to have you along. Just keep it down in there, okay?"
The door opened behind him. Two troopers came in.
"Hey, Nestor! My main guy!" said one.
"We are going for it," said the other, shorter, Hispanic. "Into the Hard Place! We gonna show those mothers our A game, man!"
Laughter. Palm-slaps.
He had too many questions. He had a sick feeling deep down, the nasty burn of adrenaline. He didn't want to turn away from the sinks, but he was turning away from the sinks. He didn't want to take a piss, but he was taking a piss. What the fuck? What the fuck? It was as if he was paralysed, moving , but paralysed. He was willing himself to do things and his body was doing something else. It was making him crazy, insane with claustrophobia.
With a final, titanic effort, he made a sound.
"You okay there, Nestor?" asked the Hispanic trooper, hosing a long stream into the metal trough, hands on hips.
"Yeah."
"You gonna puke, man?"
"No, I'm okay," he replied. "Just a little heartburn."
"Sounded like you were retching, Nestor. Like you were going to puke."
"Just freeking ® heartburn, man," he replied, patting his chest, smiling. Not smiling inside. "I'm wealthy."
The little Hispanic came over. He knew his name before he read his brooch. Valdes. Valdes's expression was that of a long-suffering brother-in-law.
"You ever going to get that ling patch lifted out of you, man?" Valdes asked. "You know you don't have to worry about no harsh language where we're going."
"The Hard Place, Nestor," said the other trooper. "No dummy rounds, it's live language out there, you know?"
"I'm going to get it lifted," he said.
"Good, that's good," said Valdes.
"You're SOMD, you better cuss like a motherfucker," said the other man. "Not like some fucking adfomercial."
"You coming?" asked Valdes, heading for the exit.
"I'll be right along."
They left him alone. He turned and looked back into himself in the mirror.
"You do not pull that freek ® again, you hear?" he said. "Whatever that was you did. You do not do that. You just ride along. Ride along. Do not freek ® with me again."
Glares on, he walked into stores, out of the hard light. It wasn't even 6.30am. The air was beginning to carry dust, like shot silk. The blue of the sky had faded, weathered. Out on the west side of Lasky, boomers were running ignition checks, making an unholy row like a fleet of brushcutters.
He'd worked out what was so disconcerting. His POV, his eye level, was about eight inches higher than he was used to. It was a small but significant defamiliarisation. It made him feel seasick.
There were about ten staffers managing the points of service. Each one was using a Mil-issue celf to swipe ID brooches and call up the spec-tailored requisites from the manifest. From initial swipe and confirm, it took about forty seconds for the plastic-wrapped kit sets, fieldpacks and webbing to come down the belt. Body armour harnesses and torso rigs came out on an electric rail a
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