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“What did you find out?”
“It’d take too long to type. Besides, I want to show you what it can do.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Problem?” Dale asked.
“A friend wants to meet. But last time I met someone it was an ambush.”
“Need backup?”
I shook my head and typed on my Gizmo. “Honey, I know what you’re after, but I’m too tired for sex right now.”
“What are you talking about?” Svoboda responded. “Oh, I see. You’re being weird to find out if I’m being coerced. No, Jazz, I’m not setting you up.”
“Just being cautious. I have an obligation at the moment. Meet at your lab tomorrow morning?”
“Sounds good. Oh and if I am being coerced in the future, I’ll work the word ‘dolphin’ into the conversation. Okay?”
“Copy,” I responded. I put the Gizmo back in my pocket.
Dale pursed his lips. “Jazz…how bad is it?”
“Well, people want to kill me, so…pretty bad.”
“Who are these people? Why do they want you dead?”
I wiped dew off my beer glass. “They’re a Brazilian crime syndicate called O Palácio. They own Sanchez Aluminum and they know I did the Sanchez harvester sabotage.”
“Shit,” Dale said. “You need a place to hide out?”
“I’m good,” I said. Then, after a few seconds, I added, “But if I need help I’ll remember your offer.”
He smiled. “Well, that’s a start, anyway.”
“Shut up and drink your beer.” I emptied my glass. “You’re two pints behind.”
“Oh, I see how it is.” He gestured to Billy. “Barkeep! Some little girl thinks she can outdrink me. We’ll need six pints—three for the gay and three for the goy.”
—
I awoke in my hidey-hole sore, groggy, and hungover. Probably hadn’t been a good idea to get wasted in the middle of all this shit, but as I’ve established, I make poor life choices.
I spent a few minutes praying for death, then I drank as much water as I could stomach and emerged from the compartment like a slug.
I ate some dry Gunk for breakfast (you taste it less that way) and wandered off to the public bathhouse on Bean Up 16. I spent the rest of the morning there soaking in a tub.
Then it was off to a middle-class clothing store on Bean Up 18. I’d been wearing my jumpsuit for three straight days. It could almost stand up on its own at this point.
Finally I was sort of human again.
I walked along the narrow corridors of Armstrong until I reached the ESA lab’s main entrance. A few scientists wandered the halls on the way to work.
Svoboda opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. “Jazz! Wait’ll you see—whoa, you look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
He produced a package of mints and poured a few into my hand. “No time to mock your alcoholism. I gotta show you this ZAFO shit. Come on!”
