Walter Jon Williams by Hardwired 1 Hardwired

Author:Hardwired 1, Hardwired
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-10-11T17:37:38+00:00

WAREHOUSE FIRE IN ORLANDO

SEVERAL LIVES BELIEVED LOST

Police Deny Reports of Firefight

Marc Mahomed whispers from concealed speakers, his voice a subaudible message amid the subtle cries and rhythms of hob. Maurice looks expressionlessly at the photographs on the wall, as absorbed as if they were a vidscreen. His metal eyes turn toward Sarah as she enters, and a slight smile crosses his face. "Rum and lime?" he asks.

Sarah nods, feeling the cool conditioned air of the bar chilling the sweat on her brow. She smiles gratefully at the Blue Silk, its familiarity easing the tension in her.

She looks around the bar, seeing only a pair of customers she's seen before, two sad-eyed Russian women who, to judge by the names that punctuate their conversation--Lenin, Stukalin, Bunin, Trotsky--are engaged in the usual discussion of where the Soviet Union had gone wrong in its mission of civilizing the rest of the world. The old argument, Sarah knows, being fought by the Russian exiles all over the world. She ignores it and takes a frosted glass from Maurice.

"Have one yourself. On me," she says.

Maurice nods and reaches for the White Horse with the slow, precise grace of a mime defining an unseen object. "Haven't seen you lately, miss," he says.

Sarah sips her drink. "I've been out of town. Business. And I've been trying to stay away from some people."

"That Orbital gentleman?"

She gives a shrug that means yes. "Don't like those people. They don't seem to know when to let a person alone."

"They look for you here. That Cunningham fella. I tell him to get the hell out."

Sarah gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Maurice."

"Every so often I see someone who might work for him, but I can't be sure." He shakes his head. "Haven't seen anyone funny in weeks, Sarah. I think Cunningham's gone home."

"I hope so. But I doubt it."

One of the Russians raises a hand for blue vodka, and Maurice pours it into frosted glasses and delivers it to their table. Sarah feels the rum gently warm her throat. The door opens behind her with a blast of September heat and she casts a swift glance over her shoulder, seeing a wheelchair holding a middle-aged white man with metal eyes, his legs a pair of padded stumps shorn off above the knee. One of Maurice's old service friends, someone she's seen before. Sarah thinks his name is James. She stares into her glass, hearing them exchange soft-voiced greetings.

Maurice makes James a drink and puts it on his table, refusing payment over his protests. Sarah has the impression they've been through this before. Marc Mahomed chants a lament for missed chances, the loss of love, of meaning. James maneuvers his wheelchair toward the rest rooms in the back. Maurice returns to the bar, to his endless, unblinking stare at the photos on the wall, his drink untasted in his hand. Sarah finishes her White Horse. She signals for another.

"Maurice," she says, "you live upstairs here, right?"

"That's correct, miss."

"Do you have a spare room?"

The featureless Zeiss eyes rise to meet hers.

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