Black Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

you on the outside.”
    “Not necessary,” Candle said firmly.
    “Are you sure? You have a problematic life history. According to the files, your father was the manager of several rock bands. You and your brother grew up around rock musicians. Studios, back stage parties. Your parents had drug issues, your father especially. Mother more of an alcoholic, although at times ...”
    “Wait—where are you getting this from? This business about my old lady wasn’t in my HR files at the department–”
    “You underwent a deep background check to get National Security clearance when you were a computer cop.”
    “I don’t remember any of that coming up during my background check.”
    “They didn’t tell you. They just investigated you. We’re up to Patriot Act Nine now—that gives me access. Now to go on ... Your father died of a drug overdose. You were fourteen. Your brother was a little younger ... Your mother disappeared when you were seventeen. Presumed dead. However–”
    “That’s fucking enough,” Candle said sharply. “Tell you what—you want to make me feel better? Open that fucking door and let me walk through it.”
    The psychiatrist’s eyes went flat. His hand strayed to the alarm pad on his desk.
    “There ... are the aggression tests to do. If you seem like you might fly out of control, once out there, after the downloading, well—you’d need therapy time first ...”
    Candle reined himself in. He forced a smile, spread his hands as casually as he could. “Give me the test, Doctor. I’m not hating on anybody. I just want to get out there and see my little brother.”
    Thinking, as he said it: One thing I know how to do is fake a negative reading on an aggression test.

THIS TEXT GOTTA BE

CHAPTER TWO—
—PERSONAL SHIT ‘TWEEN ME ’N’ YOU
    T hirteen of the Fortune 33 in the same room at the same time ...
    They sat uneasily around the long oval table, the transparent wall to one side adjusting, filtering the harsher spectra from the sunset; off-white marble walls on three sides; the corporate logo centered on the wall behind the chairman. In the middle of the high ceilinged rectangle of the Slakon International boardroom was a long glossy-black table inset with charcoal gray consoles, smart panels, light-pens, discreetly recessed displays. There were glasses of wine and carafes of Italian coffee; Bill Hoffman had Earl Grey tea. One console, one refreshment, for each board member waiting for Grist to come to the point. Chairman Grist sat at the head of the table, using the—as Hoffman had once put it—“Sharply unsubtle psychology of sitting right under the corporate logo ...”
    It was rare for the major shareholders to be in the same room, physically, at the same time.
    The irony wasn’t lost on Hoffman. “What was the reason we were supposed to meet in person?” he asked Grist, his voice silky. “Something about ... security? As if we couldn’t trust screens and semblants? This from the man who insisted we put three billion WD into semblant tech? Semblant tech is supposed to be secure. It is—isn’t it?” He smiled, and the smile said: Hey, I’m just kidding you—only I’m really not. I’m not fucking with you. Only, I am. I’m doing it in a way I can get away with, not that I care very much.
    The smile, the whole expression said all that and more, and everyone knew it.
    But his semblant could have expressed the same thing. Hoffman had shoulder-length white hair, receding from a high, lined, tanned forehead; he was an elegant man who could have been anywhere from forty-five to seventy-five. He wore an old-fashioned gray suit and silvery tie; no wristpad, just a silver Rolex he’d had for fifty years, with dial-hands on it. His face was mostly natural—but Grist assumed he had subtle de-aging nanosurgery. Just enough to retain the dignity and power of an older man, while his face kept the crisp lines of youth.
    “You know why we’re here in person,” Grist said, sipping