He gestured at the nightstand next to his bed, and a small hologram screen appeared, showing him the hour in crisp white letters. Well past midnight. Delagarza cursed, and then his hand froze before making the “close screen” gesture.
“Call Jamilia Charleton,” he said aloud, ignoring the pang of guilt for waking her at this hour.
Charleton picked up at the sixth ring. Her half-asleep face flashed on the screen, her hair plastered all over her face, before she switched to voice-only mode.
“Delagarza? Do you know what time it is?”
“Late enough to piss you off,” Delagarza said. He already regretted the call, but he was committed now.
“Damn right it is. What’s going on?”
“About the Enforcers’ offer,” he said, going straight to the point before he had time to change his mind.
“You said all you needed in the afternoon,” she said, “there’s no need to explain yourself to me. I, too, would’ve said no.”
“I’ll do it,” Delagarza said, “I’ll take the loyalty test.”
“The fuck?”
Delagarza shrugged, then slapped his forehead, because she couldn’t see him shrug and he was an idiot.
Charleton said, “If this is one of those macho things—you don’t have to mess with Tal-Kader if you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“Nothing like that,” Delagarza said.
“The money? If you’re low on funds, I can short you a credit line.”
“My rating is fine, Charleton. It’s not about the money. It is good money though.”
The conversation lulled, and the constant hum of the apartment’s life support machine filled the silence. Delagarza knew what she would ask next.
“Another one of your hunches?” Charleton asked.
Delagarza blushed like a schoolgirl. But what else could he call them?
Sometimes, when he was stuck working on a project that lasted too many days, on a piece of ‘ware that refused to cave to his attentions, he’d get these nonsensical urges. He’d bring the computer to a shitty, third-rate pawn shop and show it to the owner who would just so happen to have the right tools to crack it, or would know someone who did.
Other times, it wasn’t about work at all. Nonsensical things, like leaving a notch on a bench somewhere, or letting an old lady pass him in the line for the bus.
He hated his hunches. He was a simple man, with a simple life that made sense, and he liked it very much that way, thank you. Charleton, though, took them seriously. He was sure she was part of one of those neo-voodoo social tribes that populated their own small corner of the Net. She believed he was inhabited by the spirits of his ancestors, or some similar fantastical bullshit.
“I guess,” he said.
“Give me a second,” Charleton said. After three minutes, she told him, “The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. You’ll go up to the Station. Don’t be late.”
She hung up, leaving Delagarza alone with the buzz of his air machines, wondering just what the hell his nightmare had been about.
“THE NANOBOTS ARE harmless unless triggered by a particular hormonal presence and certain electrical reactions in your brain,” Doctor Angelique Kircher explained to Delagarza while the mercury-like liquid left her automatic injector and entered his bloodstream.
“This mix,” she went on, “is only active while the subject is lying. The bots will die on their own when their batteries run out. This batch lasts eleven minutes after I activate it. Just answer the questions truthfully during that time, and you’ll be good to go.”
“And if I don’t?” Delagarza asked, mouth dry. He hated last-night-Delagarza with all his might. That guy was an asshole, leading present him to this mess.
“In that case, you’ll save yourself the medical bills of the lung cancer treatment you’ll need if you keep smoking. That shit will kill you, you know.”
“Thanks, doc. I hear that a lot.”
The auto-injector emptied its vial, and the tiny pneumatic hiss stopped.
“How are you feeling?” asked Doctor Kircher.
Delagarza was feeling like pushing away the good doctor, tearing off his disposable medical robe, and running into Outlander’s public section.
“Just regular,” he told her.
“Beg your pardon?” the doctor said. Her accent wasn’t from here. A foreigner, then, who had never left the starport since arriving in-system. Blond hair, almost white, pale face of Franco-German descent. About forty, at least five years older than him. She probably came from one of those rich colony ships, far from any Backwater World.
Her hands were cold.
“Great, doc, I’m doing great. Can’t wait to start work.”
“Save work for the grunts, this is pleasure,” she flashed him a flirtatious wink. A less experienced man would’ve been fooled, but Delagarza knew she was only being polite—her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Probably to help him relax.
Truth was, relaxing would be a good idea.
Wouldn’t want to have the bots blow their load because I got jumpy.
Doctor Kircher waved a plaque over Delagarza’s body. Two cables connected the plaque to her work computer, a tiny Masamune embedded on her desk. Powerful as a motherfucker, the Masamune was the living proof that technology marched on, since it had a kick like a dozen Shota-M or five Motoko.
“Got your signal,” said the doctor. “Ready for the test, Sam?”
“Anytime,” said Delagarza, who didn’t subscribe to the gangers’ school of thought about overcompensation. He’d be damned the day he didn’t pretend to be brave in front of a pretty woman, even Ice Queen Kircher.
“Understood,” she said. Her wands waved at the desk, and she connected her wristband to her computer. A few fast as lightning keystrokes on a holographic keyboard later, and it was showtime.
“Remember, don’t lie,” Doctor Kircher said. “If there’s a question you don’t want to answer, just keep quiet. It may void you from working for us though.”
Delagarza nodded at her. Inside, he could feel his blood warming.
Nanobots worked on electricity, and like everything else in the universe, subjected themselves to the laws of thermodynamics. Nanobots emitted heat, albeit in very small quantities.
The doctor had insisted Delagarza couldn’t feel the difference in temperature, so his fever-like symptoms must be the nocebo effect.
Or maybe something went wrong. Perhaps this batch of bots is defective.
Kircher left him and went to sit by her desk. Without prompt, a man walked into the infirmary.
“Samuel Delagarza?” the giant asked. Without waiting for an answer, the man went on. “Major Nicholas Strauze, of the Systems Alliance Peace Enforcers. A pleasure to meet you.”
Major Strauze passed six foot eleven inches easyly. Probably passed two hundred pounds too, most of that weight being muscle. He extended Delagarza a hand that could snap a man’s neck by brushing against it.
Like Doctor Kircher, Nicholas Strauze’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Likewise, Major,” Delagarza said.
“It seems we’ll work together. If you pass the test, that is.”
“Can’t wait,” said Delagarza. It was either the fever or Outlander’s spin, but dizziness itched inside his skull.
Major Strauze nodded. He sat in front of Delagarza, who hadn’t left the examination bed he was sitting on. The chair was lower than the bed, but due to the height difference, the two men faced each other equally.
The result made Delagarza think of an adult lowering himself to a child’s level.
He decided he didn’t like this Strauze fellow. A ganger would’ve called him a “prim and proper gentleman.” Cooke would’ve called him Major Douchebag, which amounted to the same thing, really.
“Remember, don’t lie,” Doctor Kircher said. “I’ll be monitoring your biometrics from here, but there’s nothing I can do if you speak without thinking.”