object beneath. 'God knows I want you to be happy.'
'What's this?' With the fabric removed and piled on the sagging floor, the object was revealed as a broken section of wall, extending farther than Vogel's height and covered with a regular pattern of minute, translucent bumps.
'Section of the advertising panel that used to be on the exterior of the blimp. Back when it was a going concern, pre-crash, the UN's off-planet emigration program used it to bombard the citizenry with all those lovely images of what life is like out in the far colonies. Along with that unctuous sincere voice spieling out those promises: A chance to begin anew , yack yack. Probably worth bringing this puppy down just to get rid of that particular bit of urban pollution. Life's hard enough in LA without being constantly told about how much better it's supposed to be somewhere else.'
'Suits me fine.' Iris shrugged, watching him plugging in a series of cables to the bottom of the panel. 'If you don't like it here, why not leave? Like you said, the UN's always looking for more emigrants.'
'I'm not that stupid.' Vogel's expression soured as he fussed some more with the cables. He licked the multiple-pronged end of a plug before sticking it into its matching socket. 'There are things,' he said darkly, 'I know about the UN emigration program . . . that you don't.'
'What kind of things?'
'Maybe you'll find out someday. If you're unlucky.' Sparks sizzled off the back of Vogel's hand as he twisted the plug and socket closer together. 'Besides . . . I can't leave. I've got work to do here.'
'So do I.' Iris found a spot she could lean back against without slicing herself. 'So maybe we should get down to it. Whatever you brought me here to see.'
'Relax,' said Vogel. 'Show's about to start.' He dropped the cable, connected to his satisfaction, and kicked it beneath the lower edge of the suspended panel section. With his thumb and forefinger, he snuffed out some of the candles he had so carefully lit only a few minutes before, dropping the panel into shadowed darkness. 'I'm sure you'll enjoy it.'
The panel lit up, eye-stinging bright, as Vogel jabbed the largest button on a fist-sized, portable data-playback unit that had been spliced into the tangled cables. From somewhere else in the blimp's crumpled steel framework, Iris could hear a gasoline-powered electrical generator cough and wheeze into chugging life.
She shaded her eyes against the sudden glare. 'Could you turn it down?'
Just a second.' Vogel's blurred outline was visible against the light. 'The pixel elements have to run through a hardwired display cycle before we can get to the good stuff. The stuff that I put in.'
The glare shifted downward in intensity; through the fingers in front of her eyes, Iris could see shapes forming on the panel section. She dropped her hand and saw the pixels blurring together, then sharpening into the off-world vistas that the UN's advertising sections had used to entice potential emigrants. A disembodied male voice boomed from a tangle of cabinetless, raw speaker drivers that hung from one of the overhead steel ribs: 'A new life awaits you in the off-world colonies . . . the chance to begin again— '
'Enough of that crap,' growled Vogel. The voice went silent as he punched another set of buttons on the portable playback unit. The panel went dark, then was instantly filled with another image.
That Iris had seen before. The bright golden eyes of Scrappy the owl, like fire-heated coins, glared out from the panel. Enough of its surroundings were visible, with the soft, shifting glow of candlelight against expensive wood, to show that its perch remained in the former Tyrell Corporation headquarters.
'Where'd you get this?' It hadn't been that long since she had seen this particular playback, summoned by the surresper in her own apartment. 'This data record is an official police document.' She didn't know that for sure, but it was worth assuming. 'Penalties for
'What's this?' With the fabric removed and piled on the sagging floor, the object was revealed as a broken section of wall, extending farther than Vogel's height and covered with a regular pattern of minute, translucent bumps.
'Section of the advertising panel that used to be on the exterior of the blimp. Back when it was a going concern, pre-crash, the UN's off-planet emigration program used it to bombard the citizenry with all those lovely images of what life is like out in the far colonies. Along with that unctuous sincere voice spieling out those promises: A chance to begin anew , yack yack. Probably worth bringing this puppy down just to get rid of that particular bit of urban pollution. Life's hard enough in LA without being constantly told about how much better it's supposed to be somewhere else.'
'Suits me fine.' Iris shrugged, watching him plugging in a series of cables to the bottom of the panel. 'If you don't like it here, why not leave? Like you said, the UN's always looking for more emigrants.'
'I'm not that stupid.' Vogel's expression soured as he fussed some more with the cables. He licked the multiple-pronged end of a plug before sticking it into its matching socket. 'There are things,' he said darkly, 'I know about the UN emigration program . . . that you don't.'
'What kind of things?'
'Maybe you'll find out someday. If you're unlucky.' Sparks sizzled off the back of Vogel's hand as he twisted the plug and socket closer together. 'Besides . . . I can't leave. I've got work to do here.'
'So do I.' Iris found a spot she could lean back against without slicing herself. 'So maybe we should get down to it. Whatever you brought me here to see.'
'Relax,' said Vogel. 'Show's about to start.' He dropped the cable, connected to his satisfaction, and kicked it beneath the lower edge of the suspended panel section. With his thumb and forefinger, he snuffed out some of the candles he had so carefully lit only a few minutes before, dropping the panel into shadowed darkness. 'I'm sure you'll enjoy it.'
The panel lit up, eye-stinging bright, as Vogel jabbed the largest button on a fist-sized, portable data-playback unit that had been spliced into the tangled cables. From somewhere else in the blimp's crumpled steel framework, Iris could hear a gasoline-powered electrical generator cough and wheeze into chugging life.
She shaded her eyes against the sudden glare. 'Could you turn it down?'
Just a second.' Vogel's blurred outline was visible against the light. 'The pixel elements have to run through a hardwired display cycle before we can get to the good stuff. The stuff that I put in.'
The glare shifted downward in intensity; through the fingers in front of her eyes, Iris could see shapes forming on the panel section. She dropped her hand and saw the pixels blurring together, then sharpening into the off-world vistas that the UN's advertising sections had used to entice potential emigrants. A disembodied male voice boomed from a tangle of cabinetless, raw speaker drivers that hung from one of the overhead steel ribs: 'A new life awaits you in the off-world colonies . . . the chance to begin again— '
'Enough of that crap,' growled Vogel. The voice went silent as he punched another set of buttons on the portable playback unit. The panel went dark, then was instantly filled with another image.
That Iris had seen before. The bright golden eyes of Scrappy the owl, like fire-heated coins, glared out from the panel. Enough of its surroundings were visible, with the soft, shifting glow of candlelight against expensive wood, to show that its perch remained in the former Tyrell Corporation headquarters.
'Where'd you get this?' It hadn't been that long since she had seen this particular playback, summoned by the surresper in her own apartment. 'This data record is an official police document.' She didn't know that for sure, but it was worth assuming. 'Penalties for
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