The Musashi Flex by Steve Perry Page B

had to believe was more likely than Weems spotting him, then she could be in trouble. Weems’s sexual preference was, from what Mourn knew, for women, though there wasn’t a lot more than that floating around. Maybe he might decide to lure her down some empty alley for a little fun. He’d know she wasn’t a Player from the way she moved, and like a lot of Flexers, Weems didn’t have much respect for anybody who wasn’t one. Would he thump the young woman around and then prong her, just for fun? His option.
    And the little voice in his head said, Which part of “So what?” didn’t you copy, dink-brain? Somebody die and leave you in charge of rescuing women from their stupid mistakes? Because if they did, you are gonna be a busy, busy man from here on out.
    Weems was moving off, practically strolling, and that wasn’t right either. Weems wasn’t the kind of man who ordinarily strolled anywhere, from what Mourn knew of him.
    So, he’s setting a trap. No worry, you’re leaving, remember? Can’t catch what isn’t here, can he? And she is not your responsibility.
    Mourn shook his head. That wouldn’t be right, to leave her to Weems. He could go warn her off. Tell her she’d been spotted. At least that much.
    Aw, fuck. You are gonna get us killed!

10
    “This is perhaps, uh . . . not the, uh, wisest course of action, sir,” Bevins said.
    Shaw grinned at the medico. They were in the infirmary, and Shaw was naked, sitting on the exam table, butt sunk into the biogel pad. Nice and warm, the stuff was.
    “Don’t you mean, ‘This is extremely stupid’?”
    Bevins looked uncomfortable but did not speak. It wouldn’t be in him to make that kind of comment to the man who held his reins.
    Behind him, Dr. Tenae shook her head slowly.
    “Something you wanted to add?” Shaw said.
    She glanced at Bevins, then at Shaw.“‘Suicidally stupid’ would be closer to it, M. Shaw. ‘Moronically stupid.’”
    Shaw laughed. He liked this woman. Ass-kissers were a demistad a dozen, people with balls—they were worth their weight in platinum.
    “Barry is still alive and happy enough, isn’t he?”
    “It’s only been one day,” Tenae said. “He could keel over tomorrow, next week, next month, next year—we don’t have any idea how this will affect him in the long term.”
    “Dr. Tenae is correct,” Bevins said, sensing which way the wind was blowing here. “That the treatment did not kill the creature immediately is, of course, a major breakthrough, but hardly conclusive. We are years away from human protocols.”
    “Nope, we are about five seconds away from testing it on a human being.” Shaw picked up the skinpopper, a small gun-shaped mechanical device that used highpressure compressed gas to inject medications through human or animal skin and into the muscle. Old-tech, but sometimes the old ways still worked just fine.
    “Don’t do it,” Tenae said.
    “Who authorizes the credit transfers around here?”
    “Who the hell is going to authorize ours if we let you kill yourself?” she said.
    Shaw laughed again. “Recorder, annotate and verify this, please. In the event of my death, Dr. Isura Tenae is to receive from my estate one million standards.”
    “Annotated and verified,” said the recording computer’s deep voice.
    “Happy? If I die, you get rich.”
    “It’s still a bad idea,” she said. “You’re supposed to be a smart man—you know better!”
    He smiled again. He was going to give her the money anyway, for that line. Because he wasn’t going to die.
    With that, he pressed the popper’s muzzle against his thigh and squeezed the trigger. The resulting spat! was loud, it stung a little, and the stuff was cold, like being stabbed to the bone with a blade of solid carbon dioxide. He put the popper down and took a deep breath. “How long?”
    Tenae shrugged. “We don’t have a clue. Nobody saw Barry make a fast move until several hours after the injection. But maybe he didn’t have any