keypad projected from the phone's base onto the gray sheets.
Concealed number, but he knew the voice—slightly husked, soft and deep. Despite his discomfort, he sat up in bed and cleared his throat.
This was the boss of the Turing Seven—director of Mind Design and the genius behind Jones. They called him the Quiet Man. His real name was Chan Herbert, but they rarely used it.
Nathaniel had met him in person three times back in La Jolla, California. He was reclusive and cautious to a fault—hence the EPR phones, which could always detect someone unauthorized listening in.
"Where are you?" the Quiet Man asked. "Still in Dubai?"
"Yes sir. Way up in the sky. The Ziggurat."
"You sound drunk."
"I'm trying to get some sleep."
The Quiet Man produced a short, guttural hm . "Anybody from Talos call in the last twelve hours? Anybody asking about your health?" He sounded anxious. He did not much like people and rarely betrayed emotion.
"No." Nathaniel tried to keep a drowsy mirth out of his voice.
"Have you heard from Nick?"
"We've closed up shop. I think he's back in Texas."
"He called. He was weeping. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I feel great. Better than great."
"Don't bullshit me."
"A little loopy, that's all. Decompression from months of work."
Tell him: I think I'm taking control of my body, all the automatic bits. It sounds crazy but sometimes it feels wonderful. Sometimes . . .
"Nathaniel . . . "
"No, really."
"Talos knows where you are?"
"Probably," Nathaniel admitted, combing his ginger brush of hair with his fingers. "I'm off the clock and off the rez, but they know my habits."
He laid a hand over the bulge of his stomach. Too much luxury. Good food at the Galaxy Club—served by lovely Indonesian and Thai beauties.
Maybe I'll straighten out my morals.
Lose weight fast.
"Jones says something bad is heading our way. He's tied into both Talos's and MSARC's secure nets, but he won't tell me what's up until he's sure. That damned truth function—your work, if I remember correctly. I'm ordering everyone back to California."
"What's the hurry?" Nathaniel asked, stretching.
"Pay attention, Nathaniel. Since you're feeling strange—"
"What makes you say that?"
"—And Nick is feeling strange, it's probably something to do with Mariposa."
"Well, we did what we were told. What if it's not bad, but good?"
A pause. Then, with a real edge, "Do you have any idea how deep this is? How important the seven of you are—and how complicit? Price made us wealthy men. If he even suspects we can't be trusted, we're dead men. Get out now. Come to LA and call in secure when you arrive."
The connection was cut at the source.
Nathaniel fell back on the bed, tingling throughout his body.
Back to base camp. Back to LA.
He should start packing. He tried with all his might to lift his arms.
Nothing.
"I can't," he said to the wall.
A delayed effect. It might last seconds, minutes—or hours. He stared at the long shadows on the ceiling. Started to giggle, then stopped.
"What the hell have you done, you idiot ?"
How much control did he really have of his formerly autonomous functions? Getting his blood moving faster, for example—as if he were running and not lying down.
Flushing the last of those sedatives through his liver. They should be down to minimum concentrations by now, anyway.
Could he actually control his liver ?
He lay still for a while.
One of the shadows moved.
Someone was in his room.
He swiveled his eyes until his vision went muzzy.
A short, robed silhouette stood in the lighted doorway. A woman's voice murmured, "Excuse me. For morning house cleaning, inshallah —on time, sir? . . . Sir?"
She would probably call for assistance if he didn't answer—the Ziggurat emergency medical team, best in Dubai.
His jaw wouldn't move.
"Are you awake?"
"I'm fine," he finally croaked between clenched teeth. "Just the flu. Leave me alone. Get out."
The silhouette faded into all the other
Concealed number, but he knew the voice—slightly husked, soft and deep. Despite his discomfort, he sat up in bed and cleared his throat.
This was the boss of the Turing Seven—director of Mind Design and the genius behind Jones. They called him the Quiet Man. His real name was Chan Herbert, but they rarely used it.
Nathaniel had met him in person three times back in La Jolla, California. He was reclusive and cautious to a fault—hence the EPR phones, which could always detect someone unauthorized listening in.
"Where are you?" the Quiet Man asked. "Still in Dubai?"
"Yes sir. Way up in the sky. The Ziggurat."
"You sound drunk."
"I'm trying to get some sleep."
The Quiet Man produced a short, guttural hm . "Anybody from Talos call in the last twelve hours? Anybody asking about your health?" He sounded anxious. He did not much like people and rarely betrayed emotion.
"No." Nathaniel tried to keep a drowsy mirth out of his voice.
"Have you heard from Nick?"
"We've closed up shop. I think he's back in Texas."
"He called. He was weeping. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I feel great. Better than great."
"Don't bullshit me."
"A little loopy, that's all. Decompression from months of work."
Tell him: I think I'm taking control of my body, all the automatic bits. It sounds crazy but sometimes it feels wonderful. Sometimes . . .
"Nathaniel . . . "
"No, really."
"Talos knows where you are?"
"Probably," Nathaniel admitted, combing his ginger brush of hair with his fingers. "I'm off the clock and off the rez, but they know my habits."
He laid a hand over the bulge of his stomach. Too much luxury. Good food at the Galaxy Club—served by lovely Indonesian and Thai beauties.
Maybe I'll straighten out my morals.
Lose weight fast.
"Jones says something bad is heading our way. He's tied into both Talos's and MSARC's secure nets, but he won't tell me what's up until he's sure. That damned truth function—your work, if I remember correctly. I'm ordering everyone back to California."
"What's the hurry?" Nathaniel asked, stretching.
"Pay attention, Nathaniel. Since you're feeling strange—"
"What makes you say that?"
"—And Nick is feeling strange, it's probably something to do with Mariposa."
"Well, we did what we were told. What if it's not bad, but good?"
A pause. Then, with a real edge, "Do you have any idea how deep this is? How important the seven of you are—and how complicit? Price made us wealthy men. If he even suspects we can't be trusted, we're dead men. Get out now. Come to LA and call in secure when you arrive."
The connection was cut at the source.
Nathaniel fell back on the bed, tingling throughout his body.
Back to base camp. Back to LA.
He should start packing. He tried with all his might to lift his arms.
Nothing.
"I can't," he said to the wall.
A delayed effect. It might last seconds, minutes—or hours. He stared at the long shadows on the ceiling. Started to giggle, then stopped.
"What the hell have you done, you idiot ?"
How much control did he really have of his formerly autonomous functions? Getting his blood moving faster, for example—as if he were running and not lying down.
Flushing the last of those sedatives through his liver. They should be down to minimum concentrations by now, anyway.
Could he actually control his liver ?
He lay still for a while.
One of the shadows moved.
Someone was in his room.
He swiveled his eyes until his vision went muzzy.
A short, robed silhouette stood in the lighted doorway. A woman's voice murmured, "Excuse me. For morning house cleaning, inshallah —on time, sir? . . . Sir?"
She would probably call for assistance if he didn't answer—the Ziggurat emergency medical team, best in Dubai.
His jaw wouldn't move.
"Are you awake?"
"I'm fine," he finally croaked between clenched teeth. "Just the flu. Leave me alone. Get out."
The silhouette faded into all the other
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