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.But there was always the chance he had forgotten something — he had been living here right up until the day of the detachment.Besides which, there was nowhere else Bruce could burgle right now.Whatever ethical lapses he had, looting during a war wasn’t one of them.But he felt pretty comfortable stealing Curts’ stuff.“Assuming the prick has anything worth stealing,” he said, looking at a crystal statue of a duck which the terminal was not impressed with.He wondered how Curts was doing.How involved had he been in the detachment failure? Maybe his boss was in trouble with his boss.Having to scramble around now to find some new way to split the ship apart.Hunched over a desk, sweat dripping off his brow, furiously trying to invent a huge crowbar.The thought of Curts’ slick forehead made him remember the little maintenance robot he had left behind in the aft, running around with its micro–planer.He supposed it would have run out of lubricant by now, if it was still alive.He should check on it.He flopped down on the couch and called up the robot’s controls on his terminal.An image appeared of a sidewalk, shot from a sensor about ankle high.He was impressed; he had been certain someone would have caught the little guy and put a shot through its brain box by now.It was hard to tell where it was, but the robot was still moving, so he sat and watched for a while.There was a sign post.Blue.Still on the fourth level, then.Amused, Bruce sat and watched the robot for the next hour or so, hoping it would see something interesting.He had given it a few targets — spots close but not too close to the barricades, the base of escalators, and so on — but had told it to self–navigate to those locations using its own judgment.The robot would be biased to do most of its traveling in the belowground passageways, to keep it out of traffic, but spent at least some of its time above ground.Bruce got a few distant looks at barricades and security troops but nothing else of interest.There was no way to check the status of the anti–friction planer, but Bruce was certain it was out of lube.He didn’t have any other bright ideas for the robot right now, but with it still alive, decided there was no point letting it run around above ground any more than it had to.After spending a couple seconds looking at a map, Bruce took over manual control of the robot and instructed it to drop the tool.He then directed it to turn at the next corner and go down the street, towards the nearest access point for the belowground crawlways.On the screen, where a barricade should have been, there was nothing, just the last rays of sunlight setting in the garden well.He stopped the robot, confused, zooming in, finally seeing the dispersed fortifications staggered a block out into the well.It was America, the site of the hilariously one–sided battle from a few days earlier.Now, why are they hanging their asses way out in the garden well? It seemed far more vulnerable than the other barricades, all well back from the garden well.He spun the robot around, looking back down America.As he did, it panned past the ornate doors of the Bridge.He stopped, getting it.They were protecting the Bridge.And he knew why.The Bridge was one of the few places on the ship where you could walk into a room at street level and from there move up to the fifth floor and beyond.You could even walk right up to one of the fucking disconnects.Bruce groaned, recalling his earlier adventure.Absentmindedly, he spun the robot around, moving it back into the safety of the crawlways.Done, he leaned back on the couch, quietly impressed with Helot’s tactics.There were a half–dozen ways to infiltrate the aft from within the Bridge; it was no wonder they’d secured it.Which was also why they weren’t moving into the garden well anywhere else.Other than the elevators and a handful of emergency staircases — all already behind the barricades — the Bridge was the only place in the aft you could move upstairs from the fourth level.His body stiffened.Except for the wall–punchers!Now, that was a hell of an interesting idea.Getting to it would be a little stupid.But stupid in a fun way.Stein wouldn’t go for it, not at first.He would have to bring it up delicately.Seduce her with the stupidity.Tease her with it.He got up from the couch, mind racing, devising ways to blow stupid little nothings into her ear.§Stein sat in the treatment room, watching as Dr.Berg methodically probed the healing wrap on her arm.He hadn’t said anything other than pleasantries since she had arrived; either he hated multi–tasking or was still working up the nerve to say what he had found out about her parents.She had to admit that he did look tired.The hospital has gotten a lot busier in the past week.Stun weapons perhaps, but a lot of people had still taken some pretty nasty spills during the last round of fighting.Apparently satisfied with her arm, or just done with the pretense of examining it, Berg sat down on the examination table, facing her.“So?” she asked.“You’ve got a data gene.”She took that in stride, having lots of practice at absorbing the insane bullshit which seemed to be regularly hurled in her direction.“Okay.”“Do you know what that is?” Berg asked, surprised.“I was waiting for you to tell me what it is, because I know you’re very eager to do that.”Berg recoiled a bit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.But there was always the chance he had forgotten something — he had been living here right up until the day of the detachment.Besides which, there was nowhere else Bruce could burgle right now.Whatever ethical lapses he had, looting during a war wasn’t one of them.But he felt pretty comfortable stealing Curts’ stuff.“Assuming the prick has anything worth stealing,” he said, looking at a crystal statue of a duck which the terminal was not impressed with.He wondered how Curts was doing.How involved had he been in the detachment failure? Maybe his boss was in trouble with his boss.Having to scramble around now to find some new way to split the ship apart.Hunched over a desk, sweat dripping off his brow, furiously trying to invent a huge crowbar.The thought of Curts’ slick forehead made him remember the little maintenance robot he had left behind in the aft, running around with its micro–planer.He supposed it would have run out of lubricant by now, if it was still alive.He should check on it.He flopped down on the couch and called up the robot’s controls on his terminal.An image appeared of a sidewalk, shot from a sensor about ankle high.He was impressed; he had been certain someone would have caught the little guy and put a shot through its brain box by now.It was hard to tell where it was, but the robot was still moving, so he sat and watched for a while.There was a sign post.Blue.Still on the fourth level, then.Amused, Bruce sat and watched the robot for the next hour or so, hoping it would see something interesting.He had given it a few targets — spots close but not too close to the barricades, the base of escalators, and so on — but had told it to self–navigate to those locations using its own judgment.The robot would be biased to do most of its traveling in the belowground passageways, to keep it out of traffic, but spent at least some of its time above ground.Bruce got a few distant looks at barricades and security troops but nothing else of interest.There was no way to check the status of the anti–friction planer, but Bruce was certain it was out of lube.He didn’t have any other bright ideas for the robot right now, but with it still alive, decided there was no point letting it run around above ground any more than it had to.After spending a couple seconds looking at a map, Bruce took over manual control of the robot and instructed it to drop the tool.He then directed it to turn at the next corner and go down the street, towards the nearest access point for the belowground crawlways.On the screen, where a barricade should have been, there was nothing, just the last rays of sunlight setting in the garden well.He stopped the robot, confused, zooming in, finally seeing the dispersed fortifications staggered a block out into the well.It was America, the site of the hilariously one–sided battle from a few days earlier.Now, why are they hanging their asses way out in the garden well? It seemed far more vulnerable than the other barricades, all well back from the garden well.He spun the robot around, looking back down America.As he did, it panned past the ornate doors of the Bridge.He stopped, getting it.They were protecting the Bridge.And he knew why.The Bridge was one of the few places on the ship where you could walk into a room at street level and from there move up to the fifth floor and beyond.You could even walk right up to one of the fucking disconnects.Bruce groaned, recalling his earlier adventure.Absentmindedly, he spun the robot around, moving it back into the safety of the crawlways.Done, he leaned back on the couch, quietly impressed with Helot’s tactics.There were a half–dozen ways to infiltrate the aft from within the Bridge; it was no wonder they’d secured it.Which was also why they weren’t moving into the garden well anywhere else.Other than the elevators and a handful of emergency staircases — all already behind the barricades — the Bridge was the only place in the aft you could move upstairs from the fourth level.His body stiffened.Except for the wall–punchers!Now, that was a hell of an interesting idea.Getting to it would be a little stupid.But stupid in a fun way.Stein wouldn’t go for it, not at first.He would have to bring it up delicately.Seduce her with the stupidity.Tease her with it.He got up from the couch, mind racing, devising ways to blow stupid little nothings into her ear.§Stein sat in the treatment room, watching as Dr.Berg methodically probed the healing wrap on her arm.He hadn’t said anything other than pleasantries since she had arrived; either he hated multi–tasking or was still working up the nerve to say what he had found out about her parents.She had to admit that he did look tired.The hospital has gotten a lot busier in the past week.Stun weapons perhaps, but a lot of people had still taken some pretty nasty spills during the last round of fighting.Apparently satisfied with her arm, or just done with the pretense of examining it, Berg sat down on the examination table, facing her.“So?” she asked.“You’ve got a data gene.”She took that in stride, having lots of practice at absorbing the insane bullshit which seemed to be regularly hurled in her direction.“Okay.”“Do you know what that is?” Berg asked, surprised.“I was waiting for you to tell me what it is, because I know you’re very eager to do that.”Berg recoiled a bit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]