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some clue of activity inside one of them.
"Psst." The noise next to my shoulder made me jump. I turned around to see
metallic, silver pupils a complete corneal implant, expensive and very hip the
sign of a wire-wizard. White hair, like the snow, clumped into dreds that were
bound together into thick shoulder-length strands by what looked like glass.
His skin was so pale that it was almost translucent. He stood a few inches
taller than I did, but, even without the combat enhancements, I outweighed him
easily.
"I'm, like, the greeter." I wasn't sure if he meant it as a name, a function,
or a handle.
I'd been planning on giving my old handle: the one I'd used in my earlier
incarnation as a Mafia surfer. Other than the peacemaker, I'd left all my
professional trappings at the hotel, and instead wore something black and
cheap, which I'd hoped would pass as wire-wizard wear.
"I'm . . ."
"The Inquisitor, I know," he said. "We're expecting you."
I took a step back, ready to reach for the gun. "I just want a little
information. I'm not here to bust anyone."
The greeter smiled, showing me his fangs. "Yeah, okay, well, I had been really
scared. Thanks for clearing that up. Why don't you follow me back to the
party? Though & "
I felt something hit me in the chest, and I fell back onto the snowy concrete.
By the time my combat computer warned me of an attack, I had the wind knocked
out of me and I was sprawled on the ground. The greeter knelt on my chest,
holding my peacemaker in his hand.
"& You'll have to leave the weapons at the door."
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Nothing should have moved faster than my computer could detect, unless & I
gasped in a breath, grateful that my enhancements had probably spared me some
broken ribs. The glass in his hair, the pallor, and the fangs . . . suddenly,
I understood: "You're a Gorgon."
"Half. So don't get your knickers in a bundle, okay?"
He stepped off me and tucked my gun in his belt. He offered me a shaky smile
and hand up. "No harm done. You understand."
I propped myself up on my elbows and considered. The gun was useless to him.
It was a Peacemaker 2080, based on the original, but a brand-new model. The
trigger had been coded to respond to my password and fingerprints only,
standard on every new weapon since the Second Brady Act. Still, the greeter
had gotten the jump on me, and that pissed me off.
"C'mon," he said, with his hand still open, waiting. "It's cold out here."
Melted snow seeped in through the thin cotton of my pants. My combat computer
targeted the weakest spot on his knees and offered preferred trajectories and
momentum needed to cripple him. I turned it off and pulled myself up without
his help.
"All I'm looking for is an address," I said, dusting off the back of my wool
coat.
"But you found a party!" The greeter gave me a goofy grin and turned to knock
twice on the wall. With a crackle of light, a garage door appeared through a
holographic defense shield. There was a small slit cut in the thin metal door.
The greeter stuck his nose up to it. "Hey, guys, the Inquisitor's here!"
I frowned. My combat computer should have detected any holographic
projections, especially when I'd been standing almost right on top of them.
Either I was in desperate need of an upgrade, or these wire-wizards were
really good. Both options scared me.
The garage door jerked into motion with a mechanical whine. A stab of soft
white light crept up the greeter's body, making his already pale skin look
ghostly. I smelled the stench of human body odor, like a locker room.
Finally, the door was completely open. I'm not sure what I'd been expecting.
After all, I used to be a wire-wizard; I knew what they were like. Still, part
of my mind had imagined strobe lights and thin, sexy people with impeccable
fashion sense gyrating to a throbbing techno-punk beat.
Instead, the music, some kind of pleasant fusion jazz, was as soft as the
lights. People, boys mostly, few of them thin, awkwardly sat around card
tables on furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a Dumpster,
playing trading-card and role-playing games. In the corner of the vacuous
space was a VR booth. I could see some bodies jerking and gyrating there, but
I'd hardly call them sexy. And, the fashion sense? The greeter was by far the
best dressed of the lot, and that was probably because he'd chosen to go
monochromatic.
Geeks, the lot of them; if it hadn't been for the Gorgon greeter, I would have
been embarrassed that I'd come armed and expecting trouble.
"Want a beer or something?" the greeter asked. In the soft light, the glass in
his white hair glittered like ice.
I shook my head. "Who should I talk to about Page?"
The greeter cocked his head at me, like a dog trying to fathom its owner's
request. "You're kind of a one-track-mind girl, aren't you? Why don't you
relax for a minute? Put your feet up. Or do I have to knock you down again?"
"I'm busy. I have things I'd like to do tonight."
He grimaced. "Sit."
When I stared at him, unmoving, he added, "I can tell you whatt you need. But
you can't get it for free." He walked over to the nearest card table and
grabbed a remote. Clicking a button caused the garage door to begin its
groaning descent.
"What do you want?"
"What does any wizard want?"
Several thoughts occurred to me: money, power, or access to better, faster
equipment. Then, I looked around the room filled mostly with men painfully
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shy, awkward, hormonally charged young men.
"To get laid," I said.
He laughed. "Well, okay, true. But, besides that."
"I don't know."
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. The silver of his pupil caught
the light. "Think it through, Inquisitor. What could you give someone like
me?"
I shook my head. "I'm not going to give you the security code for the
Vatican."
He sneered. "Fuck that. I don't need no stinking help breaking into the Pope's
files. I could do that in my sleep. Guess again, soldier-girl."
He'd given me the answer, and the crooked smile on his face said he knew it,
too.
"Ah," I said. "You want a combat computer and all the enhancements."
He pointed his fingers at me like a gun and clicked his tongue twice. "Bingo,"
he said.
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