all.”
“Ms. Balozi, you said—”
“I said that'll be all.”
Ozols blanched and glanced at Balozi. “Yes, Ma'am.” The security contingent dispersed.
“My apologies, Ms. Dioniz, Mr. Kristupas,” the woman-in-formal said, descending the steps. “I'm Lizabet Balozi, President and CEO. The company has been placed on high alert, the boy at Plavinas Development big news. Kind of suspicious they can't find those liaisons from Adolescent Angst, don't you think?”
“Why would that be suspicious, Ms. Balozi?” Ilsa asked, the eidolon of innocence.
“They pointed out the Balozi mobile surgery center being installed on the roof, where the boy supposedly came from. The media will soon be questioning the nanotector contractor for the crèche, I assure you. That's where the attention is truly deserved. Come on in, Ms. Dioniz, Mr. Kristupas.”
The side door opened into an office as palatial as a ninth-floor penthouse. Woods of Tiburon aspen wainscoted the walls. Autoglobes in Xircon crystal illuminated the focus of attention. Divans upholstered in divine Elisium damask surrounded a sitting area. A desk topped with Ugilistan granite graced a corner. Holos of far-flung facilities crowded the far wall and flicked off at the President's blink.
All it lacks is a smudge of grease on the pavement, Maris thought, convinced that Balozi kept its sidewalks scoured.
“Please, have a seat. May I get you a beverage?”
“Profile, Lizabet Balozi,” he murmured on his trake. He remained standing while her profile spilled down his corn. Forty, Ifem, crèche-reared, she'd graduated summa cum laude from Riga Stradins University with a masters in business administration at age twenty, top of her class, valedictorian, a prodigal by any measure. She'd taken that talent to the neuratronic installation market and had brought with her the loyalty of her crèche sibs. By age thirty, she'd wrestled herself a twenty-percent market share. Her meteoric rise had garnered complaints from competitors and scrutiny from government, and her legal challenges had begun to mount. That's when she'd returned for the degree in jurisprudence. The public sector didn't have a legal mind on par with hers, and she'd spent her seven years since law school outmaneuvering legions of litigants.
“Save the ass licks for investors, honey-tongue,” Maris said. “You lose nanochines like a shark does teeth. We're here for the mobile surgery center inventory. The real one, not the one you cook to make you look good.”
She blinked at him. “I'll certainly review the search warrant, Mr. Kristupas.”
He pulled a pair of glasma bracelets off his belt. “Your wrists or the inventory. Which do we leave with?”
“May I see the search warrant?”
“Count of three, Ms. Balozi. Inventory or incarceration. Three, two—”
Ilsa stepped in front of him. “Enough, Kristupas.”
He blinked at her, disbelief stuttering through his brain.
“Plug the hole and have a seat.”
The divan felt as plush as it looked. How did she do that? he wondered, stymied and stunned.
“I'd appreciate an apology, Mr. Kristupas.”
His thoughts spattered across the pavement of amazement. He stared at Ilsa, uncomprehending.
“Tell Ms. Balozi you're sorry, Maris.”
Words tumbled from his mouth like a body down a staircase. “Forgive me, Ms. Balozi. I treated you with disdain and disrespect, and I shouldn't have.”
“Here's the warrant, Ms. Balozi,” Ilsa said, extending her palmcom. “You should be receiving it by neuramail. And I would like to reiterate my colleague's request to leave here this afternoon with the desired information. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Balozi glanced at the palmcom. “Thank you. I've requested the inventory from dispatch. I'll have that for you momentarily. You'll find that it matches the nanochine inventory on the mobile surgery center. Tragic, the boy dying like that.”
“Thankfully, they caught the nanochines before
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