husband steal from his own company? Doesn’t he stand to gain from your eventual profits?”
Geneva looked both disgusted and embarrassed. “My husband married into the company. I control it. He’s something of a wastrel, and I’ve had to keep him on a short leash. Apparently it was too galling, and he’s finally slipped it.”
“I don’t understand enough about this new trope. How’s he going to use it? What makes you so sure he won’t just sell it to one of your rivals?”
“No, no, that’s not his plan. You see, he loves to gamble. And this trope—”
“You’re not claiming it’ll let him beat the odds—” She nodded. “Exactly right. Insight into the underlying patterns of apparently random events.”
Mother of mutants, this was big. I redoubled my fees. “The regular authorities—” “Too many leaks. I need a single man.” I stood up then and walked around to her side. I raised a hand to her face. She didn’t flinch. I lightly dragged my roughened thumb over her cicatrix. The love-scar was packed with more pleasure ’ceptors and nervepaths than a tenth-generation biochip. When she climaxed, her panther reared up on its hind legs.
After she opened her eyes, I said, “I’ll bet you do.”
* * *
I don’t talk to anyone on a personal level much anymore since my wife left me. Mostly it’s just hard raps with the perps and the bad numbers and the dirty-harrys and the clients and the streetlife I encounter in my investigations. And when I don’t have a case going, there’s just Hamster to talk to.
I still can’t say why I bought the little transgenic. It wasn’t a deadly model like some guys packed. The most it could do in that line was give you a bite that might get infected in a week or two if you didn’t wash regularly. It wasn’t particularly smart. Every command had to be phrased with a minimum of ambiguity, or you’d run the risk of a major quench. Like the time I told it to “fill the car up with methane.…” It couldn’t play any games more complicated than checkers, and it lost every time. And Lord knows it wasn’t a playpet. Sterile, technically female, Hamster had as much sex appeal as a cold mackerel. It was essentially shapeless, and its special diet made it smell like wet hay. Not offensive, but hardly sexy. Now, if I had been able to afford a Golden Colt or a Snakehips, that would have been another story.…
Still and all, I was used to the splice. It was sort of like a pair of old slippers, or a chair worn to my shape, except that it could nuke supper and clean the office and nod when I bounced ideas off it.
That’s why I was talking to it, now that Geneva had left.
“I guess the first thing we’ll have to do is head out to Logan and see if we can pick up von Bulow’s trail from there. His flight arrived three days ago, but I’ve had colder starts.”
“Yes, you have, sir. I am certain you have, although I cannot remember exactly when. I am trying to think now. This is hard work, sir, just give me a moment. There was one time, I am sure I will think of it in a minute —”
“Hamster—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cut the crap and get me my gun.”
I don’t pack deadly force. No flashlights or splat-pistols or pellet-throwers for me. In most tense situations, I prefer the cool, calm voice of reason, or flight. If I have to take someone out, I do it temporarily, with a shocker. All you need is an inch of bare skin to deliver a patterned jolt of current that overloads the higher neural functions, such as making the decision to kill a harmless PI.
I slapped the gun Hamster passed me to my hip, where its biopoly barrel mated to the holster-patch on my pants. It would be there when I needed it, coming free at the touch of my hand alone, thanks to onboard sweat-vetters. I opened a desk drawer and took out my boot unit and a pad of fluorescent-orange adhesive stickers. I slipped them into an outer pocket on my vest, where I could reach them easily.
Geneva looked both disgusted and embarrassed. “My husband married into the company. I control it. He’s something of a wastrel, and I’ve had to keep him on a short leash. Apparently it was too galling, and he’s finally slipped it.”
“I don’t understand enough about this new trope. How’s he going to use it? What makes you so sure he won’t just sell it to one of your rivals?”
“No, no, that’s not his plan. You see, he loves to gamble. And this trope—”
“You’re not claiming it’ll let him beat the odds—” She nodded. “Exactly right. Insight into the underlying patterns of apparently random events.”
Mother of mutants, this was big. I redoubled my fees. “The regular authorities—” “Too many leaks. I need a single man.” I stood up then and walked around to her side. I raised a hand to her face. She didn’t flinch. I lightly dragged my roughened thumb over her cicatrix. The love-scar was packed with more pleasure ’ceptors and nervepaths than a tenth-generation biochip. When she climaxed, her panther reared up on its hind legs.
After she opened her eyes, I said, “I’ll bet you do.”
* * *
I don’t talk to anyone on a personal level much anymore since my wife left me. Mostly it’s just hard raps with the perps and the bad numbers and the dirty-harrys and the clients and the streetlife I encounter in my investigations. And when I don’t have a case going, there’s just Hamster to talk to.
I still can’t say why I bought the little transgenic. It wasn’t a deadly model like some guys packed. The most it could do in that line was give you a bite that might get infected in a week or two if you didn’t wash regularly. It wasn’t particularly smart. Every command had to be phrased with a minimum of ambiguity, or you’d run the risk of a major quench. Like the time I told it to “fill the car up with methane.…” It couldn’t play any games more complicated than checkers, and it lost every time. And Lord knows it wasn’t a playpet. Sterile, technically female, Hamster had as much sex appeal as a cold mackerel. It was essentially shapeless, and its special diet made it smell like wet hay. Not offensive, but hardly sexy. Now, if I had been able to afford a Golden Colt or a Snakehips, that would have been another story.…
Still and all, I was used to the splice. It was sort of like a pair of old slippers, or a chair worn to my shape, except that it could nuke supper and clean the office and nod when I bounced ideas off it.
That’s why I was talking to it, now that Geneva had left.
“I guess the first thing we’ll have to do is head out to Logan and see if we can pick up von Bulow’s trail from there. His flight arrived three days ago, but I’ve had colder starts.”
“Yes, you have, sir. I am certain you have, although I cannot remember exactly when. I am trying to think now. This is hard work, sir, just give me a moment. There was one time, I am sure I will think of it in a minute —”
“Hamster—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cut the crap and get me my gun.”
I don’t pack deadly force. No flashlights or splat-pistols or pellet-throwers for me. In most tense situations, I prefer the cool, calm voice of reason, or flight. If I have to take someone out, I do it temporarily, with a shocker. All you need is an inch of bare skin to deliver a patterned jolt of current that overloads the higher neural functions, such as making the decision to kill a harmless PI.
I slapped the gun Hamster passed me to my hip, where its biopoly barrel mated to the holster-patch on my pants. It would be there when I needed it, coming free at the touch of my hand alone, thanks to onboard sweat-vetters. I opened a desk drawer and took out my boot unit and a pad of fluorescent-orange adhesive stickers. I slipped them into an outer pocket on my vest, where I could reach them easily.
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