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Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
Страница: 45 из 156) But now she bristled at Sharpy's remarks.
"Eat pyrethrum, chordate!"
"Charmaine, please. She's my little sister, Sharp, and she's not in a good mood today. I apologize for her."
"No mammal has to apologize for a Roach!"
"Put it in a vacuole, Charm. Listen, Sharpy-I'll see you later. I'd better go take my bitter meds from the head."
I hauled Charmaine along to the office of Cengiz Ozturk.
In the anteroom, I pushed Charmaine down onto the Biospherics slouch-couch. "Stay here. We haven't finished talking about the probs of our little germline yet. I'll only be a zepto-I hope."
"What am I gonna do while I wait?"
"I don't care if you count your hairs. Raster some vid, you selfish kid. Can't you tell I'm gonna catch hell?"
This rough talk-which her loving brother never used toward her-seemed to waken Charmaine to the variety of my anxiety, and she sulkily picked up a pair of retinal painters provided for waiters.
"Olivetti Eye Blasters," she sarcastically intoned. "These are shit."
The expression on my face caused Charmaine to shut up and don the glasses.
I entered the zig-zaggy light-trap to Ozturk's inner sanctum.
Cengiz Ozturk was a veteran of the Last Jihad. An officer of the secular Turkish government, he had been among the last evacuees from Istanbul during its seige by the Jihad's shahada-sicarios and consequently had caught the worst of their assault, taking a hit from a bizarre new weapon.
There used to be a basal disease called xeroderma pigmentosum. Those who had it were so sensitive to sunlight
that an average day in the pre-ozone-hole sun would give them cancers and other cyto-malfunctions.
Ozturk had been hit with a designer infective agent based on this retro disease. Now it lurked ineradicable in his soma.
A few photons at the frequency of visible light impinging on his skin today would be enough to trip a cascade of death-agonists throughout his body, resulting in a yotta-painful death.
He had been med-evacked in a light-tight homeopod and installed in an null photon underground facility, where bonestretchers and cellsmelters could investigate his condition. But in the end all that could be done for him was to adapt his vision to infrared and find him an alpha-symb-land desk job.
Which had turned out to be director of the Eater Corps, my boss. And needless to say, this whole experience had left him a less-than-cheerful sort.
"Eat pyrethrum, chordate!"
"Charmaine, please. She's my little sister, Sharp, and she's not in a good mood today. I apologize for her."
"No mammal has to apologize for a Roach!"
"Put it in a vacuole, Charm. Listen, Sharpy-I'll see you later. I'd better go take my bitter meds from the head."
I hauled Charmaine along to the office of Cengiz Ozturk.
In the anteroom, I pushed Charmaine down onto the Biospherics slouch-couch. "Stay here. We haven't finished talking about the probs of our little germline yet. I'll only be a zepto-I hope."
"What am I gonna do while I wait?"
"I don't care if you count your hairs. Raster some vid, you selfish kid. Can't you tell I'm gonna catch hell?"
This rough talk-which her loving brother never used toward her-seemed to waken Charmaine to the variety of my anxiety, and she sulkily picked up a pair of retinal painters provided for waiters.
"Olivetti Eye Blasters," she sarcastically intoned. "These are shit."
The expression on my face caused Charmaine to shut up and don the glasses.
I entered the zig-zaggy light-trap to Ozturk's inner sanctum.
Cengiz Ozturk was a veteran of the Last Jihad. An officer of the secular Turkish government, he had been among the last evacuees from Istanbul during its seige by the Jihad's shahada-sicarios and consequently had caught the worst of their assault, taking a hit from a bizarre new weapon.
There used to be a basal disease called xeroderma pigmentosum. Those who had it were so sensitive to sunlight
that an average day in the pre-ozone-hole sun would give them cancers and other cyto-malfunctions.
Ozturk had been hit with a designer infective agent based on this retro disease. Now it lurked ineradicable in his soma.
A few photons at the frequency of visible light impinging on his skin today would be enough to trip a cascade of death-agonists throughout his body, resulting in a yotta-painful death.
He had been med-evacked in a light-tight homeopod and installed in an null photon underground facility, where bonestretchers and cellsmelters could investigate his condition. But in the end all that could be done for him was to adapt his vision to infrared and find him an alpha-symb-land desk job.
Which had turned out to be director of the Eater Corps, my boss. And needless to say, this whole experience had left him a less-than-cheerful sort.