by way of tubes and what appeared to be actual electrical flex.
The med-units seemed to be some hybrid mix of the inorganic and decidedly
organic
—hearts and livers held in steel and polycarbon rack-cages,
stimulated by servo-motors and
pumping liquids which, by the colour, could be anything except saline fluid
and blood.
The units seemed to twitch and fibrillate, like insects with their carapaces
split open and their insides laid out.
“The fuck ..?” Eddie Kalish managed to croak at last. “Wh’ happened? Fuck am
I?”
“You see?” Trix Desoto said with a small smirk. “Nobody
ever
finds a new way
of saying it.”
She stood up with a creak of patent leather. The catsuit covered her belly and
midriff, but was sufficiently tight and clinging for Eddie to see that the
flesh under it was flat and toned, no sign of a wound of any kind.
The ragged and blood-matted hair that Edie remembered from the van in New
Mexico now fell in platinum-blonde curls that suggested regular washing in a
rejuvenatingly herb-steeped stream next door to a chemical plant.
Trix Desoto crossed the room, with quick scissor-steps, and activated a wall
panel by the door. “He’s awake now. You can come in.” Then she turned to
regard Eddie with a not unkindly smile.
“You’re safe enough, in the relative scheme of things,” she said to him.
“We’re in the San Angeles Sprawl, in a GenTech facility. Welcome to the
Factory.”
The door slid open, and a Suit came in.
That wasn’t mere colloquial hyperbole. The Suit was a dead and perfect black
so that, for example, if an arm was laid across the chest, it was impossible
to see the distinction between them; you could only see the Suit in one-piece
silhouette.
Protruding from the neck of the Suit, by means of the usual human arrangement,
was the neatly groomed head of a man—and once again, neatly-groomed was not
mere hyperbole. The hair and beard were cropped and shaped in a manner so
precise that one could imagine it having been done follicle by follicle, by
micromanipulator, under the direction of a team of design consultants, in an
operation costing tens of thousands of dollars.
The effect, however, was somewhat spoilt by the fact that there are some men
who simply cannot carry off cropped hair and beards. And there are some men, frankly, who are con-genitally unsuited to
waiting a suit. Or even a Suit.
Later, Eddie would learn that the ensemble was basically a uniform, the
standard outfit for GenTech field-management of a certain level—and you damn
well wore what was given to you—but for the moment the main impression was a
little like that of a child somewhat ineptly dressing up.
This new arrival in the Suit grinned at Eddie—a little shiftily, Eddie
thought. The effect might have been due, though, to the black wraparound
shades that gave no idea whatsoever of what the eyes might be doing underneath
them.
“So you’re our mystery wonder-boy,” he said, leaving no doubt that
wonder-boy
actually meant:
some little squit I don’t particularly give two shits
about.
“Eddie, is it? Eddie Kalish? Doesn’t quite seem to
fit
with
anything, if you get what I mean. Doesn’t fit right with where you were. Where
we found you. Where does it come from?”
Eddie shrugged, rattling a couple of tubes.
Far as he could recall, that was just always what he had been called. He had
simply never thought about it. And he certainly wasn’t going to start thinking
about it now at the behest of this individual, who he was already beginning to
dislike intensely.
(And just when and where, he would wonder later, had he started thinking in
terms of this “behest of individual” crap?)
The man shrugged himself, utterly unconcerned rather than sullen. The matter
was simply not worth bothering about.
“Call yourself whatever you want,” he said. “What do I care? You can call me
Masterton—and I’ll tell you right now that’s not what you might call my
real name. That,
The med-units seemed to be some hybrid mix of the inorganic and decidedly
organic
—hearts and livers held in steel and polycarbon rack-cages,
stimulated by servo-motors and
pumping liquids which, by the colour, could be anything except saline fluid
and blood.
The units seemed to twitch and fibrillate, like insects with their carapaces
split open and their insides laid out.
“The fuck ..?” Eddie Kalish managed to croak at last. “Wh’ happened? Fuck am
I?”
“You see?” Trix Desoto said with a small smirk. “Nobody
ever
finds a new way
of saying it.”
She stood up with a creak of patent leather. The catsuit covered her belly and
midriff, but was sufficiently tight and clinging for Eddie to see that the
flesh under it was flat and toned, no sign of a wound of any kind.
The ragged and blood-matted hair that Edie remembered from the van in New
Mexico now fell in platinum-blonde curls that suggested regular washing in a
rejuvenatingly herb-steeped stream next door to a chemical plant.
Trix Desoto crossed the room, with quick scissor-steps, and activated a wall
panel by the door. “He’s awake now. You can come in.” Then she turned to
regard Eddie with a not unkindly smile.
“You’re safe enough, in the relative scheme of things,” she said to him.
“We’re in the San Angeles Sprawl, in a GenTech facility. Welcome to the
Factory.”
The door slid open, and a Suit came in.
That wasn’t mere colloquial hyperbole. The Suit was a dead and perfect black
so that, for example, if an arm was laid across the chest, it was impossible
to see the distinction between them; you could only see the Suit in one-piece
silhouette.
Protruding from the neck of the Suit, by means of the usual human arrangement,
was the neatly groomed head of a man—and once again, neatly-groomed was not
mere hyperbole. The hair and beard were cropped and shaped in a manner so
precise that one could imagine it having been done follicle by follicle, by
micromanipulator, under the direction of a team of design consultants, in an
operation costing tens of thousands of dollars.
The effect, however, was somewhat spoilt by the fact that there are some men
who simply cannot carry off cropped hair and beards. And there are some men, frankly, who are con-genitally unsuited to
waiting a suit. Or even a Suit.
Later, Eddie would learn that the ensemble was basically a uniform, the
standard outfit for GenTech field-management of a certain level—and you damn
well wore what was given to you—but for the moment the main impression was a
little like that of a child somewhat ineptly dressing up.
This new arrival in the Suit grinned at Eddie—a little shiftily, Eddie
thought. The effect might have been due, though, to the black wraparound
shades that gave no idea whatsoever of what the eyes might be doing underneath
them.
“So you’re our mystery wonder-boy,” he said, leaving no doubt that
wonder-boy
actually meant:
some little squit I don’t particularly give two shits
about.
“Eddie, is it? Eddie Kalish? Doesn’t quite seem to
fit
with
anything, if you get what I mean. Doesn’t fit right with where you were. Where
we found you. Where does it come from?”
Eddie shrugged, rattling a couple of tubes.
Far as he could recall, that was just always what he had been called. He had
simply never thought about it. And he certainly wasn’t going to start thinking
about it now at the behest of this individual, who he was already beginning to
dislike intensely.
(And just when and where, he would wonder later, had he started thinking in
terms of this “behest of individual” crap?)
The man shrugged himself, utterly unconcerned rather than sullen. The matter
was simply not worth bothering about.
“Call yourself whatever you want,” he said. “What do I care? You can call me
Masterton—and I’ll tell you right now that’s not what you might call my
real name. That,
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