Somehow.
Neer’s face turned down into melancholy anger. “I was one of the best, wasn’t I?”
“The best damned research scientist Homeland Intelligence ever had.” Thia raised her glass in mock tribute.
“One little mistake,” he said. His eyes held a faraway look.
Thia begged to differ with calling an entire career of back-stabbing and insubordination ‘one little mistake,’ but she nodded her head in agreement. “Bastards don’t know what they’re missing. But I’m giving you a chance to get back in, if you want it.”
“Whaddoo I hafta do?” he slurred.
“There’s a rumor that Wills was working on consciousness transference before he left. I just need you to poke around, see if it’s on the server. If so, share the wealth.”
“Transference of consciousness? Why didn’t I hear about it?” Neer said.
“Because you don’t have our resources. Do you think Perim or Nicholle knows?”
“If anyone, probably Nicholle. Blood, you know, is thicker than water.”
“I see. I don’t have to remind you that what’s said here is strictly between us,” Thia said.
“I’m not an amateur,” he protested. His voice was noticeably louder, and Thia knew she would have to close the deal soon, before the management did it for her.
“So, do we have a deal?”
Neer raised his glass, the Green Chartreuse casting a neon glow on his pallid face. “To our deal.”
“Excellent. We’ll have to work out a system of communication. But we can talk details later.”
Neer had a blank look on his face. “Why can’t I just send it wiho?”
“I don’t trust it.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He leaned over and breathed alcohol in her face. “What say we go to your place?” he whispered loudly.
Thia refrained from rolling her eyes and waving her hand in front of her nose. “I’m in the purlieus. Get your coat.”
b
With the advent of fuel cells, people had moved farther out beyond D.C. than before, establishing towns in once-rural areas, now known as the purlieus. The suburbs were abandoned, left to whoever was left—usually the criminal element.
Route 1994 was relatively empty, given that it was a weeknight. Most of the commuters had gone home on the Maglev, and were now ensconced in their cookie-cutter neighborhoods on the edge of nowhere, where pudgy husbands mowed their postage-stamp yards on Saturday mornings. Gossipy housewives walked their children to the park to talk to other moms about the best daycare, or which child had what second-grade teacher. Thia hated the whole scene. But it was the only place she could afford. At the moment, anyway. The rich still inhabited their enclaves in Kensington, Georgetown, and Potomac. The middle class were relegated farther out in the purlieus, while the poor were stuck in rundown isolation in the suburbs.
The high-speed trains had allowed those middle-class earners who wanted the white picket fence to head out to the purlieus in search of good schools, low crime, and convenient shopping. The people had moved beyond the cities, but culture hadn’t. Ask a purlieu dweller when the last time was he saw a chamber orchestra and he would look at you as if you had sprouted a second head. Even if the orchestra was, literally, at his fingertips. Tap a finger, et voilà! A string ensemble.
As the car sped past a blurred landscape at 250 miles per hour, Thia lounged in the driver’s seat. In her lifetime, auto-pilot reduced the role of the driver to mere observer, and the interior of cars changed accordingly. She tapped up a heated massage and sank into the blanket of hands that stretched under the ostrich skin seat. Fingers kneaded away stress-induced tension.
A low snore emanated from Neer. His mouth hung open as drool leaked from the side. His self-aggrandizing charm had long since dissipated. She figured she would stash him in her bed until morning, tell him how great he was, then send him on his way.
A blue light flashed
Neer’s face turned down into melancholy anger. “I was one of the best, wasn’t I?”
“The best damned research scientist Homeland Intelligence ever had.” Thia raised her glass in mock tribute.
“One little mistake,” he said. His eyes held a faraway look.
Thia begged to differ with calling an entire career of back-stabbing and insubordination ‘one little mistake,’ but she nodded her head in agreement. “Bastards don’t know what they’re missing. But I’m giving you a chance to get back in, if you want it.”
“Whaddoo I hafta do?” he slurred.
“There’s a rumor that Wills was working on consciousness transference before he left. I just need you to poke around, see if it’s on the server. If so, share the wealth.”
“Transference of consciousness? Why didn’t I hear about it?” Neer said.
“Because you don’t have our resources. Do you think Perim or Nicholle knows?”
“If anyone, probably Nicholle. Blood, you know, is thicker than water.”
“I see. I don’t have to remind you that what’s said here is strictly between us,” Thia said.
“I’m not an amateur,” he protested. His voice was noticeably louder, and Thia knew she would have to close the deal soon, before the management did it for her.
“So, do we have a deal?”
Neer raised his glass, the Green Chartreuse casting a neon glow on his pallid face. “To our deal.”
“Excellent. We’ll have to work out a system of communication. But we can talk details later.”
Neer had a blank look on his face. “Why can’t I just send it wiho?”
“I don’t trust it.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He leaned over and breathed alcohol in her face. “What say we go to your place?” he whispered loudly.
Thia refrained from rolling her eyes and waving her hand in front of her nose. “I’m in the purlieus. Get your coat.”
b
With the advent of fuel cells, people had moved farther out beyond D.C. than before, establishing towns in once-rural areas, now known as the purlieus. The suburbs were abandoned, left to whoever was left—usually the criminal element.
Route 1994 was relatively empty, given that it was a weeknight. Most of the commuters had gone home on the Maglev, and were now ensconced in their cookie-cutter neighborhoods on the edge of nowhere, where pudgy husbands mowed their postage-stamp yards on Saturday mornings. Gossipy housewives walked their children to the park to talk to other moms about the best daycare, or which child had what second-grade teacher. Thia hated the whole scene. But it was the only place she could afford. At the moment, anyway. The rich still inhabited their enclaves in Kensington, Georgetown, and Potomac. The middle class were relegated farther out in the purlieus, while the poor were stuck in rundown isolation in the suburbs.
The high-speed trains had allowed those middle-class earners who wanted the white picket fence to head out to the purlieus in search of good schools, low crime, and convenient shopping. The people had moved beyond the cities, but culture hadn’t. Ask a purlieu dweller when the last time was he saw a chamber orchestra and he would look at you as if you had sprouted a second head. Even if the orchestra was, literally, at his fingertips. Tap a finger, et voilà! A string ensemble.
As the car sped past a blurred landscape at 250 miles per hour, Thia lounged in the driver’s seat. In her lifetime, auto-pilot reduced the role of the driver to mere observer, and the interior of cars changed accordingly. She tapped up a heated massage and sank into the blanket of hands that stretched under the ostrich skin seat. Fingers kneaded away stress-induced tension.
A low snore emanated from Neer. His mouth hung open as drool leaked from the side. His self-aggrandizing charm had long since dissipated. She figured she would stash him in her bed until morning, tell him how great he was, then send him on his way.
A blue light flashed
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