blue vat-grown mink; on the larger one was pinned an orchidenia that I could smell from six feet away. Her skirt hung down to her ankles on the left side, but revealed her whole right leg. She wore chrome chopines that added four inches to her height. Her black curly hair was piled high, with a blonde curl dangling down over her forehead. She had canary-yellow irises and a small tight mouth. On one cheek she wore a small love-cicatrix shaped like the astrological symbol for Venus.
“Please,” she said, “couldyou cover the windows.”
“Lady, we’re on the fortieth floor—”
“You can’t tell what optics are out there. Nanocams are everywhere these days. Please, do it.”
I shrugged and spoke. “Shutters.”
Sheets of opaque piezoplastic that had been curled up at the top of the windows stiffened down like tongues across the glass, under the impulse of a mild electric current. I boosted the lights.
“Have a seat,” I offered. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She sat and crossed bare right leg over left. I saw the tattoon of a panther she wore on her outer upper thigh. Every thirty seconds it opened its mouth in a silent snarl.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll have a Foma Froth, if you’ve got it.”
I kicked the splice sleeping at my feet. “Hamster, wake up, we’ve got a visitor.”
Hamster opened its eyes and blinked. It preened its whiskers and said, “Yes, sir, my help is needed now?”
“Damn right, you dumb trans. Get a cheer-beer for me, and a Foma Froth for the lady.”
Hamster got up and adjusted its short tunic. It walked to the small magnetic fridge, got the drinks, served them, then asked, “Will that be all that is needful, sir?”
“Yeah, go back to sleep.”
Hamster did just that.
“Cheapest transgenic they make,” I apologized.
She waved her hand negligently. “No matter. My name is Geneva Hippenstiel-Imhausen. May I see your licenses?”
I passed my ID card over. Showing topmost was my Massachusetts PI license. She repeatedly flexed the card to reveal my North American Union, EuroComm, IMF, Brazilian, and orbital credentials. She flexed it one final time, and a naked pinup of the thrid-vid-star Siouxsie Sexcrime in one of her more notorious poses was revealed. I had to admire Geneva’s composure. No expression, just a faint reddening of her cicatrix. She handed the card back. “It seems to reveal everything I need to know about you.”
“That puts you a leg up on me,” I said, eyeing the leg in question. “Could I ask what you’re here for?”
She leaned forward. “I want you to put a boot on someone.”
Well. That took me by surprise. I wouldn’t have guessed that was what she needed.
“You do do boots, don’t you?” she asked, lifting one neatly scribed eyebrow.
“Oh, sure, but they’re tricky. It’ll cost more than my average rates.”
“That’s no matter. There’s much at stake.”
I mentally raised my rates by half. “I’ll need to know more before I can definitely take the case. Who are you booting, and what does he have that’s not his?”
She sighed. “It’s my husband. Jurgen von Bulow. He’s made off with the latest trope from the company I own. Perhaps you’ve heard of Hippenstiel-Imhausen? We’re a German firm, specializing in bioactives. Our most recent product is still in the experimental stages. It’s an explosive new neurotropin. Even to speak of it now is rather risky. That’s why I wanted the shutters down. And I assume your office is recently swept.…”
I nodded. She continued, rather reluctantly.
“What my husband took is a trope that allows stochastic reasoning, insight into the dynamics of chaos. We were hoping to have it perfected before word of it reached our competitors. But my husband absconded with some doses of a test-batch and plans to use them, I’m certain. He’ll ruin our secrecy. And, if anyone ever got to him and unwound the codes from his bloodstream—there go our patents.”
“Why’d your
“Please,” she said, “couldyou cover the windows.”
“Lady, we’re on the fortieth floor—”
“You can’t tell what optics are out there. Nanocams are everywhere these days. Please, do it.”
I shrugged and spoke. “Shutters.”
Sheets of opaque piezoplastic that had been curled up at the top of the windows stiffened down like tongues across the glass, under the impulse of a mild electric current. I boosted the lights.
“Have a seat,” I offered. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She sat and crossed bare right leg over left. I saw the tattoon of a panther she wore on her outer upper thigh. Every thirty seconds it opened its mouth in a silent snarl.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll have a Foma Froth, if you’ve got it.”
I kicked the splice sleeping at my feet. “Hamster, wake up, we’ve got a visitor.”
Hamster opened its eyes and blinked. It preened its whiskers and said, “Yes, sir, my help is needed now?”
“Damn right, you dumb trans. Get a cheer-beer for me, and a Foma Froth for the lady.”
Hamster got up and adjusted its short tunic. It walked to the small magnetic fridge, got the drinks, served them, then asked, “Will that be all that is needful, sir?”
“Yeah, go back to sleep.”
Hamster did just that.
“Cheapest transgenic they make,” I apologized.
She waved her hand negligently. “No matter. My name is Geneva Hippenstiel-Imhausen. May I see your licenses?”
I passed my ID card over. Showing topmost was my Massachusetts PI license. She repeatedly flexed the card to reveal my North American Union, EuroComm, IMF, Brazilian, and orbital credentials. She flexed it one final time, and a naked pinup of the thrid-vid-star Siouxsie Sexcrime in one of her more notorious poses was revealed. I had to admire Geneva’s composure. No expression, just a faint reddening of her cicatrix. She handed the card back. “It seems to reveal everything I need to know about you.”
“That puts you a leg up on me,” I said, eyeing the leg in question. “Could I ask what you’re here for?”
She leaned forward. “I want you to put a boot on someone.”
Well. That took me by surprise. I wouldn’t have guessed that was what she needed.
“You do do boots, don’t you?” she asked, lifting one neatly scribed eyebrow.
“Oh, sure, but they’re tricky. It’ll cost more than my average rates.”
“That’s no matter. There’s much at stake.”
I mentally raised my rates by half. “I’ll need to know more before I can definitely take the case. Who are you booting, and what does he have that’s not his?”
She sighed. “It’s my husband. Jurgen von Bulow. He’s made off with the latest trope from the company I own. Perhaps you’ve heard of Hippenstiel-Imhausen? We’re a German firm, specializing in bioactives. Our most recent product is still in the experimental stages. It’s an explosive new neurotropin. Even to speak of it now is rather risky. That’s why I wanted the shutters down. And I assume your office is recently swept.…”
I nodded. She continued, rather reluctantly.
“What my husband took is a trope that allows stochastic reasoning, insight into the dynamics of chaos. We were hoping to have it perfected before word of it reached our competitors. But my husband absconded with some doses of a test-batch and plans to use them, I’m certain. He’ll ruin our secrecy. And, if anyone ever got to him and unwound the codes from his bloodstream—there go our patents.”
“Why’d your
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