a firestorm of neurons using his current implant, but what he really wanted was to get his new implant and see what that baby could do.
Midnight.
It would be okay. Upgrade dealers were like drug dealers, and used to the schedule. Just like with drugs, it was possible to become addicted to add-ons. Dealers of both were always available, no matter the time.
Still, he should call. Doc might be in bed.
But if he called, Doc might not answer, or might tell him to come back tomorrow. Nicolai didn’t want to come back tomorrow, so he didn’t call. Doc had told him to show up whenever, and “whenever” happened to be midnight. Paying Doc through the nose for upgrades bought Nicolai a lot of leeway. He reassured himself that it was okay to take it.
Nicolai’s Beam ID was registered — via Doc’s invite and via his status as high-ranking Directorate — on the permanent guest list in Doc’s building. He nodded to the guards, stepped into the elevator, and tried to still his breathing. He felt like a piece of art was trying to be born inside him. He had to get his fingers on a keyboard, or explode in an orgasm of creativity.
The floors couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Nicolai arrived at the 47 th floor to find Doc’s door ajar. That was strange, but it wasn’t as though doors had to be closed at all times. So he stepped inside and found the room dark. That was stranger. The lights should have sensed him and gone bright.
“Canvas,” said Nicolai.
Nothing happened.
He stepped further into the apartment, tentative, already thinking he should back out. It was hard to see, but the hallway light showed him that a lamp had been shattered and that a framed picture had fallen from the wall. What used to be the frame’s glass overlay was in shards on the carpet.
“Doc?” he called.
Nicolai said nothing further, because at that moment, a strong hand clasped him from behind and the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.
Micah Ryan stood at the head of a small group in his office at District Zero’s Enterprise building. His shoulders were straight, his hands clenched behind his back. He had a sculpted, handsome jaw and steely eyes that were technically brown but that sometimes seemed closer to silver. He had a carefree, unassuming haircut with nary a hair out of place, and wore his trim blue suit and silk band tie as if he’d been poured into them.
The group was as elite as its tiny size suggested. There was nothing especially difficult about its current mission, but this mission above all others required trust and clearance. It was the kind of mission that nobody could know about, because it would make the Enterprise seem two-faced and unsettled. And of course, that was exactly the impression they wanted people to have about the Directorate.
“We were stationed around the Aphora’s crowd,” said a thin black man named Eams. “Bernie started with the boos, like you saw on the Beam feed. The tomatoes — the first ones, anyway — came from Gloria. Her idea, by the way.”
“High five, Gloria,” said Micah, showing a few teeth in a friendly smile. He held out a hand. Gloria was nowhere near him, but she raised her own, and air-clapped toward him.
“I still think we shouldn’t throw shit that isn’t natural to carry. Why would anyone would bring tomatoes to a concert?” said an agent with a surfer’s swept-back blonde hair. He was dressed immaculately now, but Micah had seen the feed from his sister-in-law’s concert and had managed to pick out Craig, with his surfer’s hair. He’d worn a shabby 2060’s vintage tux and had looked as absurd as the rest of the attending Directorates.
Gloria started to answer, but Micah, pacing, beat her to it. “It doesn’t matter. You’d bring tomatoes if you knew in advance that you wanted to throw them, same as you’d bring a bouquet of flowers. Throwing things at Natasha Ryan’s feet is an NAU pastime. So if they aren’t running a search at the door,
Midnight.
It would be okay. Upgrade dealers were like drug dealers, and used to the schedule. Just like with drugs, it was possible to become addicted to add-ons. Dealers of both were always available, no matter the time.
Still, he should call. Doc might be in bed.
But if he called, Doc might not answer, or might tell him to come back tomorrow. Nicolai didn’t want to come back tomorrow, so he didn’t call. Doc had told him to show up whenever, and “whenever” happened to be midnight. Paying Doc through the nose for upgrades bought Nicolai a lot of leeway. He reassured himself that it was okay to take it.
Nicolai’s Beam ID was registered — via Doc’s invite and via his status as high-ranking Directorate — on the permanent guest list in Doc’s building. He nodded to the guards, stepped into the elevator, and tried to still his breathing. He felt like a piece of art was trying to be born inside him. He had to get his fingers on a keyboard, or explode in an orgasm of creativity.
The floors couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Nicolai arrived at the 47 th floor to find Doc’s door ajar. That was strange, but it wasn’t as though doors had to be closed at all times. So he stepped inside and found the room dark. That was stranger. The lights should have sensed him and gone bright.
“Canvas,” said Nicolai.
Nothing happened.
He stepped further into the apartment, tentative, already thinking he should back out. It was hard to see, but the hallway light showed him that a lamp had been shattered and that a framed picture had fallen from the wall. What used to be the frame’s glass overlay was in shards on the carpet.
“Doc?” he called.
Nicolai said nothing further, because at that moment, a strong hand clasped him from behind and the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.
Micah Ryan stood at the head of a small group in his office at District Zero’s Enterprise building. His shoulders were straight, his hands clenched behind his back. He had a sculpted, handsome jaw and steely eyes that were technically brown but that sometimes seemed closer to silver. He had a carefree, unassuming haircut with nary a hair out of place, and wore his trim blue suit and silk band tie as if he’d been poured into them.
The group was as elite as its tiny size suggested. There was nothing especially difficult about its current mission, but this mission above all others required trust and clearance. It was the kind of mission that nobody could know about, because it would make the Enterprise seem two-faced and unsettled. And of course, that was exactly the impression they wanted people to have about the Directorate.
“We were stationed around the Aphora’s crowd,” said a thin black man named Eams. “Bernie started with the boos, like you saw on the Beam feed. The tomatoes — the first ones, anyway — came from Gloria. Her idea, by the way.”
“High five, Gloria,” said Micah, showing a few teeth in a friendly smile. He held out a hand. Gloria was nowhere near him, but she raised her own, and air-clapped toward him.
“I still think we shouldn’t throw shit that isn’t natural to carry. Why would anyone would bring tomatoes to a concert?” said an agent with a surfer’s swept-back blonde hair. He was dressed immaculately now, but Micah had seen the feed from his sister-in-law’s concert and had managed to pick out Craig, with his surfer’s hair. He’d worn a shabby 2060’s vintage tux and had looked as absurd as the rest of the attending Directorates.
Gloria started to answer, but Micah, pacing, beat her to it. “It doesn’t matter. You’d bring tomatoes if you knew in advance that you wanted to throw them, same as you’d bring a bouquet of flowers. Throwing things at Natasha Ryan’s feet is an NAU pastime. So if they aren’t running a search at the door,
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