Scardown-Jenny Casey-2 Read Online Free PDF Page A

to the girls?” Gabe's daughters—my goddaughters—and our friend Elspeth are on Earth, hostage for our good behavior. Unstated but true.
    “Leah and Genie are fine.” He follows and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulls me down to sit beside him on the hard narrow bunk. Moonlight, shifting as the
Montreal
spins, brings out the silver in his hair, washes the color from his cheeks. It's bright in here. “Elspeth is staying with them.” His hand squeezes mine. Morse code, as he passes a message to Richard from Elspeth Dunsany, his creator, through the intermediary of flesh on flesh. “She sends her love.” Gabe's fingers twined in mine tell another story.
There is a worm
.
    An intentional programming glitch in the software that runs my wetware. Makes my metal arm do what my brain—or my combat-wired reflexes—tell it to do. Will do the same for this massive, powerful hulk of a ship.
Valens doesn't trust me.
    “No,” Richard says. “He knows you hate him. He knows Elspeth would love to see him on the wrong end of a court-martial. And he knows my prototype was famous for not staying within bounds.”
    It's what makes you a good AI, Dick.
    “It's what makes me an AI at all,” he answered, passing on the fleeting impression of a smile.
    Richard. I meant to ask you. Do I need to worry about transmitting my nanite load to anybody else? Like . . . shit, like a blood-borne disease?
    “Can Gabe catch them? Little late to ask now. No—it shouldn't be a problem. They need a controller implant, a chip; they're not designed to act independently. Which reminds me: I'm going to go check your programming again.” He's been over it a few thousand times. “You kids have fun. I won't peek.”
    I bet.
But he vanishes from my inner eye with a wink, and Gabe pulls me close, a casual touch I've waited a lifetime for.
     
    4:00 PM

Friday 3 November, 2062

Bloor Street

Toronto, Ontario
    Elspeth Dunsany blinked her contact clear of streaming data as the front door of Gabriel's Toronto apartment opened; she leaned away from Gabriel's desk, rolling stiff shoulders. She had let her hair down, trying to ease the ache across her temples, and now she massaged it, spring-coiled ringlets brushing the nape of her neck. She reached into an overwhelming stretch, fingers spread like a scratching cat's, then clapped her palms together and stood more fluidly than her comfortably padded frame would suggest. Absently, she fiddled with a slip-thin crucifix hanging over the hollow of her throat before shaking her head, picking her blazer off the back of the chair, and tapping a password on the crystal plate set into Gabriel's desk to lock the interface. “Leah?”
    “Genie,” Geniveve Castaign answered with a light little cough. She walked into the den, which doubled as her father's study, and sat on the white-legged stool beside the door. “Comment allez-vous, Elspeth?”
    “Bien,” Elspeth replied, smiling at her own accent. She couldn't understand the Castaign family's French half the time, nor they hers. “Qu'est-ce que tu faim?”
    “Oui!” Geniveve bounced onto the balls of her feet, arms swinging. She was small and thin for twelve, and always hungry. Enzyme therapies and the magic of modern medicine made her cystic fibrosis treatable, but her body still burned calories at an alarming rate, and she was hard-pressed to absorb everything she needed from her food. Elspeth led Gabriel's blond daughter into the stainless-steel, concrete, and linoleum kitchen, where they grilled cheese sandwiches out of the box. “Somebody needs to teach your dad to cook.”
    “He's the king of takeout.” Genie switched to English for Elspeth's sake. “Can you cook?”
    “Can I cook?” She slid a plate across the breakfast bar and dialed two more sandwiches from the freezer as the front door opened again. “I can make better than this, kid. My mother was an American. She taught me real Creole roux, jambalaya, and beignets. I do a pretty good