from connex acquaintances, people she knew from online groups. And one from Lucienne.
She looked at Jean, so he would know. His face paled under his stubble, but he didn’t speak.
Cricket opened the message.
And would have fallen if Jean had not caught her.
It was a sense-dump, night water and darkness, the smell of lubricant and the texture of the flashboat’s controls in her hands, all subsumed by a hypodermic stab to the left of her spine, the building pressure of a migraine like the handle of a knife pressed to her eye. She gasped but couldn’t make her diaphragm work. Jean’s hands on her shoulders guided her back, cushioning her until she slumped against a chair. The robe was everywhere, he must be getting an eyeful, but he caught her under the chin and made her look into his eyes. “You need EMS.”
“No,” Cricket said, a shrill spasming whine. She couldn’t lift her hand to push at him, so she thumped the heel on the deck for emphasis. She felt him jump. “No doctor. Just…a minute.”
Dying. Cricket—no, Lucienne was dying. Lucienne knew she was dying, and she knew why. And there was no time to explain.
So she showed.
The file was encoded, and Cricket’s breath came back into her with a rush as the flood of numbers washed away the swelling pain in her head. Lucienne had swamped her connex, a massive core-dump—
Corrupt. Corrupt. Corrupt.
“Shit!” The word of the day, apparently. Cricket scrambled to save, to back up, to dump what Lucienne had sent her into a protected hold. Cricket was an archinformist. She had better security protocols than most governments. And she knew how to sling data, and how to repair it—
She went after it, the bones in Jean’s wrists creaking as she clenched her hands. But the file was incomplete. And a nonholographic transmission, so what she had was a chunk of data, but not the sort of chunk that could give you a fuzzy picture of the whole. This was a linear string. Though Cricket was pretty sure she could find the key, because Lucienne would have wanted her—or Jean—to crack the code, she only had part of it.
And now was not the time for trying to patch out a crack on what she had. Not when Jean was leaning over her, moving his hands inside her slackening grip to tug her dressing gown shut over her breasts, breathing so shallowly that listening to him made
her
lungs hurt.
She let her hands loosen. He touched her shoulder and sat back. “Jean,” she said. She opened her eyes. His, water-colored behind his rimless glasses, looked back.
He sighed, short and sharp. “No.”
She put a hand down and picked herself off the floor. She’d bruised her shoulders on the chair. When she extended her hand to pull Jean off his knees, the stretch of muscle made her wince. “I—”
“It’s not your fault.” Abruptly, preemptive.
“It had to be André.”
“It’s still not your fault.” He straightened, fist pressed into his side like a runner with a stitch. “His responsibility. Did she…send you anything else?”
“Part of a file.” She swallowed. “It was coded. The connex cut off.”
“Shit.” With exactly the same inflection she’d said it, too. Her smile hurt more than frowning had. He opened his mouth, looked at her, shut it.
She couldn’t stand the look on his face, the wary softness of it. Jean Gris should never look so unguarded. “You’re not even going to recite the stupid parable about the snake at me, are you?”
He snorted, a pained laugh that didn’t open his mouth. “No.” And then a pause. “He’s got the knack, doesn’t he?”
“Could he have got past what you hung on Lucienne if he didn’t?”
Untrained, unassisted. Jean shook his head. Cricket’s heart twisted in her chest.
Nobody’d ever loved her like that. “Do you think you can—”…
save him
…
fix him.
She didn’t even know the word she wanted.
Jean shrugged. Not a dismissal. A
maybe
. Even now. “I’ve known men as bad, turned out better.”
She looked at Jean, so he would know. His face paled under his stubble, but he didn’t speak.
Cricket opened the message.
And would have fallen if Jean had not caught her.
It was a sense-dump, night water and darkness, the smell of lubricant and the texture of the flashboat’s controls in her hands, all subsumed by a hypodermic stab to the left of her spine, the building pressure of a migraine like the handle of a knife pressed to her eye. She gasped but couldn’t make her diaphragm work. Jean’s hands on her shoulders guided her back, cushioning her until she slumped against a chair. The robe was everywhere, he must be getting an eyeful, but he caught her under the chin and made her look into his eyes. “You need EMS.”
“No,” Cricket said, a shrill spasming whine. She couldn’t lift her hand to push at him, so she thumped the heel on the deck for emphasis. She felt him jump. “No doctor. Just…a minute.”
Dying. Cricket—no, Lucienne was dying. Lucienne knew she was dying, and she knew why. And there was no time to explain.
So she showed.
The file was encoded, and Cricket’s breath came back into her with a rush as the flood of numbers washed away the swelling pain in her head. Lucienne had swamped her connex, a massive core-dump—
Corrupt. Corrupt. Corrupt.
“Shit!” The word of the day, apparently. Cricket scrambled to save, to back up, to dump what Lucienne had sent her into a protected hold. Cricket was an archinformist. She had better security protocols than most governments. And she knew how to sling data, and how to repair it—
She went after it, the bones in Jean’s wrists creaking as she clenched her hands. But the file was incomplete. And a nonholographic transmission, so what she had was a chunk of data, but not the sort of chunk that could give you a fuzzy picture of the whole. This was a linear string. Though Cricket was pretty sure she could find the key, because Lucienne would have wanted her—or Jean—to crack the code, she only had part of it.
And now was not the time for trying to patch out a crack on what she had. Not when Jean was leaning over her, moving his hands inside her slackening grip to tug her dressing gown shut over her breasts, breathing so shallowly that listening to him made
her
lungs hurt.
She let her hands loosen. He touched her shoulder and sat back. “Jean,” she said. She opened her eyes. His, water-colored behind his rimless glasses, looked back.
He sighed, short and sharp. “No.”
She put a hand down and picked herself off the floor. She’d bruised her shoulders on the chair. When she extended her hand to pull Jean off his knees, the stretch of muscle made her wince. “I—”
“It’s not your fault.” Abruptly, preemptive.
“It had to be André.”
“It’s still not your fault.” He straightened, fist pressed into his side like a runner with a stitch. “His responsibility. Did she…send you anything else?”
“Part of a file.” She swallowed. “It was coded. The connex cut off.”
“Shit.” With exactly the same inflection she’d said it, too. Her smile hurt more than frowning had. He opened his mouth, looked at her, shut it.
She couldn’t stand the look on his face, the wary softness of it. Jean Gris should never look so unguarded. “You’re not even going to recite the stupid parable about the snake at me, are you?”
He snorted, a pained laugh that didn’t open his mouth. “No.” And then a pause. “He’s got the knack, doesn’t he?”
“Could he have got past what you hung on Lucienne if he didn’t?”
Untrained, unassisted. Jean shook his head. Cricket’s heart twisted in her chest.
Nobody’d ever loved her like that. “Do you think you can—”…
save him
…
fix him.
She didn’t even know the word she wanted.
Jean shrugged. Not a dismissal. A
maybe
. Even now. “I’ve known men as bad, turned out better.”
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