Ghosts in the Machine (The Babel Trilogy Book 2) by Richard Farr

Author:Richard Farr [Farr, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781477817896
Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 2016-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

The desk by the fireplace was made from a dark exotic hardwood, inlaid in an abstract pattern with other exotic hardwoods, but other than that it was a lot like Mayo’s desk at ISOC. It looked barely used, and there was nothing on it except a single folder under a paperweight. The folder was dark red and had “BalakInd Corporation” in gold letters on the cover.

I should have gone straight out to the lanai, but I couldn’t resist sitting in the chair and running my hands over the polished surface. It was like a metaphor of my own ignorance. What did I know about Balakrishnan? About as much as I knew about Mayo. Almost nothing.

One of the drawers had been left open; my hands were picking through its contents before I’d even thought about it. Pens and mints. More folders. Thick, creamy, old-fashioned personal writing paper, with nothing but “A. Balakrishnan” at the top of each sheet. More mints.

The fire was right at my back, and I started to sweat as I took out one of the folders. There was nothing in it but spreadsheets filled with big-money numbers. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached to turn it off, then saw it was Kit. The sound was off, so all I got was her face, her lips silently moving, her eyes unsmiling. Her expression had the unmistakable look of—

OK, so on second thoughts it wasn’t unmistakable. A whole ragbag of different interpretations sprang into my mind and started throwing punches at each other. Stressed out by Rosko? Mildly fed up because she burned the lunch again? Generally bored due to still being stuck in the cabin? Anxious about your mental state? Anxious about my safety and/or mental state? Conflicted and guilt-ridden because she was unsure how to communicate while temporarily withholding from me (with, oh, the best possible motives!) the information that she’s decided this relationship might be, let’s face it, shall we, Morag, a huge mistake?

No idea.

Too many ideas.

My thumb fluttered over the sound icon, but it wasn’t the best moment. Besides, if I did contact her, I might have a hard time finding the sweet spot between sounding not-quite-believably casual—Aye, the flight was no problem. Everything’s fine. How are you guys doing?—and sounding not-quite-bearably needy:

I love you. Missing you is like being stabbed in the heart over and over with a rusty screwdriver. I can’t bear to be without you, and it absolutely pisses me off that I don’t have the strength of mind to stop thinking about you even when I need to stop thinking about you. Seeing your face makes it better. And worse. At the same time. I feel like an addict, and it turns out that addiction is a total blast (brilliant insight here: that must be why addiction is so, you know, addictive!—never thought of that before). A total blast, right up to the moment when someone takes the goodies away and you go into withdrawal and discover that withdrawal is

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