actual books lining the walls.
‘‘Have you taught her much?’’ I asked.
Desma sat and grinned. ‘‘DOS, no. She’s teaching me. She’s a class I level 8 psi.’’
I sat kitty-corner to my cousin. I’ve been exposed to a lot of psis in my time, but never one rated so highly. The Thompson sisters were probably at least that powerful but nobody was ever able to test them successfully. Those girls value their privacy.
‘‘Class I level 8,’’ I repeated.
‘‘Good cos, glad to see your short-term memory works.’’
While I had to get back on the case, I was fascinated by a psi of this power level.
‘‘So what can she do?’’ I asked.
‘‘Anything she wants,’’ Desma said with a hint of a smile. ‘‘Anything she wants.’’
‘‘I need more than that,’’ I coaxed.
‘‘Suffice it to say, if she told you to drop dead, you would. Happily.’’ Desma thought for a nano. ‘‘Even that computer you have strapped to your brain probably wouldn’t help. She’d be the perfect assassin. Luckily, she’d never kill anybody.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’
Desma turned her head. ‘‘Truthfully, I don’t know. Let’s hope I’m right or we’re all in trouble.’’ She took a nano or two to collect her thoughts. ‘‘Now, I assume we’re here to talk about Ms. Cannon?’’ She said in her most professional voice.
Desma pointed to a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses on the end of table. I hadn’t noticed them before. I probably should have.
‘‘Thirsty?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’m on the job.’’
‘‘It’s over a hundred years old,’’ she coaxed.
I shrugged. ‘‘Spam that then. Not like this is a paying job.’’
Desma made a delicate hand gesture toward the bottle and glasses. Rising off the table, they floated down to us. Desma twisted her hand. The bottle top popped off and was held suspended in midair. She put her elbow on the table then her head in her hand. The smooth, red liquid started flowing down the side of the first glass. I showed her two fingers. The brandy rose in the glass until it was about the height of those fingers. The bottle tilted upward slowly, not dripping a drop. The bottle levitated to the remaining glass, tipping its spout just enough. Liquid filled the void from the bottle to glass, seeping into the glass until it was topped off. The bottle straightened and gently touched down on the table. All the while, Desma’s eyes never left mine.
She picked her glass and held it up. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘Impressive,’’ I told her. Lots of psis can do the brute force action, but the subtle moves take a lot of control.
‘‘It’s impolite not to return the cheers,’’ she told me.
I touched my glass to hers. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘You’re probably the only normal in the world I feel comfortable doing that in front of.’’
I took a sip, it was smooth with four oohs . . . ‘‘Let’s just say I’m not that normal.’’
She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. ‘‘Good point. At least there are thousands of us psis. You’re the only person in the world sharing his brain with a supercomputer.’’ She took a sip.
This was about all HARV could stand. He appeared before Desma, transmitting himself from my eye lens. (He didn’t seem to mind that he had a table between his top and bottom sections.) ‘‘What about me?’’ HARV asked. ‘‘I’m the only supercomputer in the world forced to share its processing power with a human. It’s like I’m a fine race car, capable of exceptional speed, power, and precision, except I’m saddled with an amateur driver.’’ HARV spun his head toward me. ‘‘No offense, Zach.’’
‘‘Taken,’’ I said, though I was ignored.
‘‘Yes, HARV. I can only begin to imagine the suffering he’s caused you,’’ Desma said.
HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Oh, the stories I could tell ...’’
‘‘Do you mind if we get to the case?’’ I asked.
HARV
‘‘Have you taught her much?’’ I asked.
Desma sat and grinned. ‘‘DOS, no. She’s teaching me. She’s a class I level 8 psi.’’
I sat kitty-corner to my cousin. I’ve been exposed to a lot of psis in my time, but never one rated so highly. The Thompson sisters were probably at least that powerful but nobody was ever able to test them successfully. Those girls value their privacy.
‘‘Class I level 8,’’ I repeated.
‘‘Good cos, glad to see your short-term memory works.’’
While I had to get back on the case, I was fascinated by a psi of this power level.
‘‘So what can she do?’’ I asked.
‘‘Anything she wants,’’ Desma said with a hint of a smile. ‘‘Anything she wants.’’
‘‘I need more than that,’’ I coaxed.
‘‘Suffice it to say, if she told you to drop dead, you would. Happily.’’ Desma thought for a nano. ‘‘Even that computer you have strapped to your brain probably wouldn’t help. She’d be the perfect assassin. Luckily, she’d never kill anybody.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’
Desma turned her head. ‘‘Truthfully, I don’t know. Let’s hope I’m right or we’re all in trouble.’’ She took a nano or two to collect her thoughts. ‘‘Now, I assume we’re here to talk about Ms. Cannon?’’ She said in her most professional voice.
Desma pointed to a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses on the end of table. I hadn’t noticed them before. I probably should have.
‘‘Thirsty?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’m on the job.’’
‘‘It’s over a hundred years old,’’ she coaxed.
I shrugged. ‘‘Spam that then. Not like this is a paying job.’’
Desma made a delicate hand gesture toward the bottle and glasses. Rising off the table, they floated down to us. Desma twisted her hand. The bottle top popped off and was held suspended in midair. She put her elbow on the table then her head in her hand. The smooth, red liquid started flowing down the side of the first glass. I showed her two fingers. The brandy rose in the glass until it was about the height of those fingers. The bottle tilted upward slowly, not dripping a drop. The bottle levitated to the remaining glass, tipping its spout just enough. Liquid filled the void from the bottle to glass, seeping into the glass until it was topped off. The bottle straightened and gently touched down on the table. All the while, Desma’s eyes never left mine.
She picked her glass and held it up. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘Impressive,’’ I told her. Lots of psis can do the brute force action, but the subtle moves take a lot of control.
‘‘It’s impolite not to return the cheers,’’ she told me.
I touched my glass to hers. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘You’re probably the only normal in the world I feel comfortable doing that in front of.’’
I took a sip, it was smooth with four oohs . . . ‘‘Let’s just say I’m not that normal.’’
She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. ‘‘Good point. At least there are thousands of us psis. You’re the only person in the world sharing his brain with a supercomputer.’’ She took a sip.
This was about all HARV could stand. He appeared before Desma, transmitting himself from my eye lens. (He didn’t seem to mind that he had a table between his top and bottom sections.) ‘‘What about me?’’ HARV asked. ‘‘I’m the only supercomputer in the world forced to share its processing power with a human. It’s like I’m a fine race car, capable of exceptional speed, power, and precision, except I’m saddled with an amateur driver.’’ HARV spun his head toward me. ‘‘No offense, Zach.’’
‘‘Taken,’’ I said, though I was ignored.
‘‘Yes, HARV. I can only begin to imagine the suffering he’s caused you,’’ Desma said.
HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Oh, the stories I could tell ...’’
‘‘Do you mind if we get to the case?’’ I asked.
HARV
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