Deadlock Read Online Free PDF Page B

helmet into a recharging base. He snapped his weapons prop—which, in his VR display, had been a Steyr TMP, Parker Hale rifle, and naginata —into tongs on the wall.
    He gazed up at the control room’s window, two stories above the Void’s floor. Ian sat at a control panel, punching buttons and turning knobs. He saw Page looking and flipped a switch that opened an intercom.
    â€œHow was it?” Ian said.
    â€œYour avatar flickered a few times. It hesitated when it was over me with the knife.”
    â€œThat was a glitch,” Ian said. “I wouldn’t have hesitated.”
    â€œAnd the eyes still aren’t quite right.” Page rolled his head around, feeling the muscles in his neck flex and pop. He pushed his fists into his lower back and bent over them.
    Snatching a cigar holder off a shelf, he withdrew a vintage Davidoff Dom Perignon, a dark brown stick of aromatic Cuban leaf, made before the manufacturer fled Havana for the Dominican. He rolled the cigar under his nose, appreciating the coffee-chocolaty fragrance coming off the wrapper.
    â€œOh,” he said, catching Ian’s eye again. “Was the rifle smoke your idea? How many programming man-hours did you spend on that one?”
    â€œIf you want, we can program smoke rings for you too,” Ian said.
    â€œI’m not laughing, smart guy.” He clipped the foot of the Davidoff and toasted the head over a lighter’s mini-torch. His inability to blow smoke rings, despite burning through a dozen cigars a day, was a company joke—though only Ian dared laugh about it to his face.
    The great Brendan Page, he’d say, conqueror of cities, builder of empires, leader of thirty thousand men . . . can’t blow a smoke ring.
    Page pulled on the cigar, tasting cedar in the smoke. He glanced up at the empty control room window. He formed his lips into an O and pushed out some smoke. An unformed plume billowed into the room.
    Ian strolled past the window.
    â€œIan!” Page called. He waved the smoke away from his face. Ian nodded at him.
    â€œLet’s go again,” Page said.
    â€œAnyone in mind?”
    Page thought about it. “I think it’s time to kick bin Laden’s butt again. Put him on, but give him a couple extra bodyguards this time.”

FIVE
    Hutch held the phone away from his ear as the man on the other end laid into him.
    â€œWhere do you come off calling me at home?” the man said.
    Hutch said, “Okay, forget about Dr. Nichols.” He tapped a notepad on his desk with a pencil. “What about Genjuros ? Does that word mean anything to you? I think it’s G-E-N—”
    He heard a click and the familiar nothingness that was somehow deeper than silence. “Hello? Dr. Kregel?”
    He sighed and dropped the handset onto the cradle, then rocked back in his chair. He gazed at the dry-marker board, the size of a garage door, that hung on one wall of his home office. It was covered with scribbled notes in a dozen colors. Lines snaked around and through words, suggesting tentative connections. Photographs and articles clipped from newspapers and magazines or photocopied from books were taped here and there along its edges, spreading onto the walls.
    One of the papers, partially covered by later additions to the wall, was headlined “The Psychological Effect of War on the Adolescent Mind.” It was written by Dorian Nichols, PhD. A small picture showed a man in glasses and a bow tie.
    Hutch tossed the pencil at it. He said, “What is it, doctor? What did you want me to find out?”
    A knock came at the door. Laura peered in, smiling. “You’re not talking to yourself, are you?”
    â€œDon’t worry, I don’t listen.” Hutch looked at his watch and realized he’d been holed up for three hours. “Uh . . . I lost track of the time.”
    â€œI kind of got that,” Laura said. She came into the room, carrying two