Read Online Iron Sunrise by Charles Stross - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Stross
Tags: SF
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anything he might mistake for an audience. What kind of profile match do you have?"
"He's a good old-fashioned radge. That is to say, a dangerous fuckwit,"
said MacDougal, frowning. She blinked for a moment as if she had something in her eye, then flicked another glyph at Rachel. "Here. Read it fast, then start talking. I don't think we've got much time for sitting around."
"Okay." Rachel's nostrils flared, taking in a malodorous mixture of stale coffee, nervous sweat, the odor of a police mobile incident room sitting on the edge of ground zero. She focused on the notes—not that there was much to read, beyond the usual tired litany of red-lined credit ratings, public trust derivatives, broken promises, exhibitions of petrified feco-stalagmites, and an advanced career as an art-school dropout. Idi had tried to get into the army, any army—but not even a second-rate private mercenary garrison force from Wichita would take him. Nutty as a squirrel cage, said a telling wikinote from the recruiting sergeant's personal assist. MacDougal's diagnosis was already looking worryingly plausible when Rachel stumbled into the docs covering his lifelong obsession and saw the ancient photographs, and the bills from the cheapjack body shop Idi—his real name of record, now he'd put his dismal family history behind him—spent all his meager insurance handouts on. "Treponema pallidum injections—holy shit, he paid to be infected with syphilis?"
"Yeah, and not just any kind—he wanted the fun tertiary version where your bones begin to melt, your face falls off, and you suffer from dementia and wild rages. None of the intervening decades of oozing pus from the genitals for our man Idi."
"He's mad." Rachel shook her head.
"I've been telling you that, yes. What I want to know is, can you take him?"
"Hmm." She took stock. "He's big. Is he as hard as he looks?"
"No." This from Schwartz. "I could myself have easily taken him, without armor. Only he had a gun. He is ill, an autosickie."
"Well then." Rachel reached a decision. "We've got, what? Forty-four minutes? When you've got everybody out, I think I'm going to have to go in and talk to him face-to-face. Keep the guns out of sight but if you can get a shot straight down through the ceiling that—"
"No bullets," said MacDougal. "We don't know how he's wired the dead man's handle, and we can't afford to take chances. We've got these, though." She held up a small case: "Robowasps loaded with sleepy-juice, remotely guided. One sting, and he'll be turned off in ten seconds. The hairy time is between him realizing he's going down and the lights going out.
Someone's got to stop him yelling a detonation command, tripping the dead man's handle, or otherwise making the weasel go pop."
"Okay." Rachel nodded thoughtfully, trying to ignore the churning in her gut and the instinctive urge to jump up and run—anywhere, as long as it was away from the diseased loony with the Osama complex and the atom bomb upstairs. "So you hook into me for a full sensory feed, I go in, I talk, I play it by ear. We'll need two code words. 'I'm going to sneeze' means I'm going to try to punch him out myself. And, uh, 'That's a funny smell' means I want you to come in with everything you've got. If you can plant a lobotomy shot on him, do it, even if you have to shoot through me. Just try to miss my brain stem if it comes down to it. That's how we play this game. Wasps would be better, though. I'll try not to call you unless I'm sure I can immobilize him, or I'm sure he's about to push the button." She shivered, feeling a familiar rush of nervous energy.
"Are you about that certain?" Schwartz asked, sounding dubious.
Rachel stared at him. "This fuckwit is going to maybe kill dozens, maybe hundreds of people if we don't nail him right now," she said. "What do you think?"
Schwartz swallowed. MacDougal shook her head. "What is it you do for a living, again?" she asked.
"I reach the parts ordinary disarmament
"He's a good old-fashioned radge. That is to say, a dangerous fuckwit,"
said MacDougal, frowning. She blinked for a moment as if she had something in her eye, then flicked another glyph at Rachel. "Here. Read it fast, then start talking. I don't think we've got much time for sitting around."
"Okay." Rachel's nostrils flared, taking in a malodorous mixture of stale coffee, nervous sweat, the odor of a police mobile incident room sitting on the edge of ground zero. She focused on the notes—not that there was much to read, beyond the usual tired litany of red-lined credit ratings, public trust derivatives, broken promises, exhibitions of petrified feco-stalagmites, and an advanced career as an art-school dropout. Idi had tried to get into the army, any army—but not even a second-rate private mercenary garrison force from Wichita would take him. Nutty as a squirrel cage, said a telling wikinote from the recruiting sergeant's personal assist. MacDougal's diagnosis was already looking worryingly plausible when Rachel stumbled into the docs covering his lifelong obsession and saw the ancient photographs, and the bills from the cheapjack body shop Idi—his real name of record, now he'd put his dismal family history behind him—spent all his meager insurance handouts on. "Treponema pallidum injections—holy shit, he paid to be infected with syphilis?"
"Yeah, and not just any kind—he wanted the fun tertiary version where your bones begin to melt, your face falls off, and you suffer from dementia and wild rages. None of the intervening decades of oozing pus from the genitals for our man Idi."
"He's mad." Rachel shook her head.
"I've been telling you that, yes. What I want to know is, can you take him?"
"Hmm." She took stock. "He's big. Is he as hard as he looks?"
"No." This from Schwartz. "I could myself have easily taken him, without armor. Only he had a gun. He is ill, an autosickie."
"Well then." Rachel reached a decision. "We've got, what? Forty-four minutes? When you've got everybody out, I think I'm going to have to go in and talk to him face-to-face. Keep the guns out of sight but if you can get a shot straight down through the ceiling that—"
"No bullets," said MacDougal. "We don't know how he's wired the dead man's handle, and we can't afford to take chances. We've got these, though." She held up a small case: "Robowasps loaded with sleepy-juice, remotely guided. One sting, and he'll be turned off in ten seconds. The hairy time is between him realizing he's going down and the lights going out.
Someone's got to stop him yelling a detonation command, tripping the dead man's handle, or otherwise making the weasel go pop."
"Okay." Rachel nodded thoughtfully, trying to ignore the churning in her gut and the instinctive urge to jump up and run—anywhere, as long as it was away from the diseased loony with the Osama complex and the atom bomb upstairs. "So you hook into me for a full sensory feed, I go in, I talk, I play it by ear. We'll need two code words. 'I'm going to sneeze' means I'm going to try to punch him out myself. And, uh, 'That's a funny smell' means I want you to come in with everything you've got. If you can plant a lobotomy shot on him, do it, even if you have to shoot through me. Just try to miss my brain stem if it comes down to it. That's how we play this game. Wasps would be better, though. I'll try not to call you unless I'm sure I can immobilize him, or I'm sure he's about to push the button." She shivered, feeling a familiar rush of nervous energy.
"Are you about that certain?" Schwartz asked, sounding dubious.
Rachel stared at him. "This fuckwit is going to maybe kill dozens, maybe hundreds of people if we don't nail him right now," she said. "What do you think?"
Schwartz swallowed. MacDougal shook her head. "What is it you do for a living, again?" she asked.
"I reach the parts ordinary disarmament
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