That shut the boy up. Reluctantly, he closed the switchblade, tucking it into the top of his boot. While adjusting his uniform, he gave Jonny a quick, accusing glance, and followed his friends out of the cell.
'So long, guys,' called Jonny. 'Keep in touch.' He laughed and nodded to the lieutenant. The young man's identity tag read TAUSSIG. 'Thanks for your help. I thought I was dog food for sure- '
'On your feet, pusher,' said Lieutenant Taussig.
Jonny took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. 'You mind if I catch my breath first?' he asked.
Taussig reached down to examine Jonny's face, turning it this way and that in the light. He did not look pleased.
'If anybody asks, tell them the anesthetic hadn't quite worn off and you fell on the stairs', the lieutenant said.
'Why? What do you care about those clowns?' asked Jonny.
'Just do it.'
Jonny smiled. 'Oh, I get it. Afraid someone'll find out you can't handle your troops?'
Taussig pulled Jonny up by his good arm. 'Let's go,' he said.
The lieutenant led Jonny out onto a rusted loading gantry, through a maze of small-bore piping and frozen transfer valves to the floor the old processing plant cum prison. Vague breezes and convection currents kicked up scraps of paper, fluttering them around the pylons of fifty foot cryogenic tanks.
The floor sloped; the air cooled. They entered a battered hydro-plunge service lift whose burnished walls reflected the harsh industrial lighting in jagged bolts and loops. As they descended, Jonny noticed that Taussig had punched a button in the Yellow Sector. Jonny was impressed. He had never received clearance to enter any of the restricted areas.
When the elevator doors opened, Taussig pushed Jonny to a jerry-rigged desk (a horizontal slab of tank cladding bolted athwart two enormous shock-coils) and handed a sheaf of documents to a pale boy whose eyes seemed to have no pupils at all. The red-faced boy motioned for a couple of pre-pubescent guards to follow them, and walked Jonny and the lieutenant down a short corridor. At the end, he unlocked a scuffed yellow door for them.
Inside, it was another world.
The light came from incandescent bulbs, a muted non-industrial glow. They stood in a small anteroom whose walls Jonny was sure were real wood, not plasti-form. Between two locked doors at the far end of the room was a low table, in the Kamakura style. On the table was a small bowl holding a single bonsai. Jonny coughed into his fist a couple of times. The sound was flat, swallowed up by the walls like water on sand. Sound-proofed, he thought.
Taussig walked to door on the right of the table and leaned over the eyepiece of a portable Haag-Streit retinal scanner. A moment later, a buzzer sounded. Gripping the ornamental brass handle, the lieutenant pushed the door open and motioned Jonny inside. Taussig did not enter. When Jonny turned to look at him, the lieutenant closed the door in his face.
'What the hell happened to you?' came a familiar, avuncular voice.
Jonny faced the room, seeing only a computer terminal on the far side of a mahogany table with four matching chairs drawn up to it. Dragons inset in some lighter wood coiled in battle or play on the table's surface. In the dim light, Jonny could not see the face of the man sitting on the opposite side of the table. But that voice. It made Jonny feel a little sick.
'I thought they cleaned you up in the infirmary,' the man said.
Jonny could just make out the silhouette. It gestured for Jonny to take a seat.
'I tripped on the stairs,' Jonny said. 'The- uh- anesthetic.' He sat in the chair as he was told.
Jonny could see the face now. It smiled at him. The short cropped hair was whiter than he remembered.
'What's the matter, Gordon? Not even a 'hello' for your old C.O.?' The officer, Colonel Brigidio Zamora, set a small pile of crumpled currency next to a collection of pills and Jonny's tagged Futukoro.
'Captain Zamora-' Jonny began.
'Colonel.'
'Congratulations,' Jonny said. He rubbed his wounded shoulder, reflexively. 'Look Colonel, you're too late. I know this room and the ride down here were supposed to mind-fuck me, but you blew it. Three of your puppies broke into my cell just now and tried to slice me up. I'm exhausted and my shoulder hurts like hell.' Jonny leaned his good elbow on the table. 'So tell me, Colonel, what kind of deal are you prepared to offer me?'
For a moment, Zamora did nothing and Jonny found himself wondering if he had chosen the wrong tactic. The Colonel, he remembered, liked to have a good time. In a moment, though, Zamora relaxed, exhaling little bursts of air from his throat. His version of laughter.
'I tell you, Gordon, you kill me,' said the Colonel, with good humor. 'You beg for it; that's what you do. You beg people to smash you up. No wonder your life's such a mess.'
'What's wrong with my life?' asked Jonny.
'Well for starters, look where you are.'
Jonny could not argue with that one.
The Colonel, Jonny noticed, had put on some weight. The jacket of his uniform now fit tight across his belly. The creases around his mouth and eyes had taken on the exaggerated depth of cheap statuary. Colonel Zamora did not seem to be aging so much as fossilizing. In his presence, Jonny was always reminded of reptiles, slow, solid beasts of ancient bloodlines, all muscles and teeth.
'Is that why I'm here?' Jonny asked. You're a social worker now? Gonna fix my life?
Zamora shook his head. 'No, Gordon; you're going to fix mine.'
'What does that mean?'
'You really have no concept, do you?' Zamora asked. He spoke slowly, as if addressing someone of less than average intelligence.
'See if you can grasp this: you killed Captain Cawfly- one of my officers, and then just waltzed away. Do you know how that makes me look? And then you turn up with these smugglers. Selling their drugs; giving them Committee secrets. Working for terrorists, Gordon. I mean, just how much abuse am I supposed to take?'
Jonny started to say something, then met Zamora's tired gray eyes. Thin ice.
'The way I figure it, you owe me,' said the Colonel.
'I don't owe you anything,' Jonny replied quickly.
That seemed to amuse Zamora. 'See, you're doing it again.'
Jonny looked around the room impatiently. 'Look, Colonel, I had enough of this crap when I was in the Committee. That's why I took a walk.'
'Oh, is that the reason?' asked the Colonel. He raised an eyebrow. 'Just a case of restless youth, was it? No gestures were implied? Giving the finger to me, to the Committee?'
'I didn't even think about it.'
'Well, you should have,' said Zamora.
'Fuck you and your disgrace,' blurted Jonny. 'If you want to deal, fine. If not, charge me with something and let me call my lawyer.'
For the second time, Jonny made the Colonel laugh. 'You think I'm going to bother with the courts? I'm not subtle like you, Gordon. You play this my way or you're dead. That's my gesture to you.'
'Bueno,' said Jonny. He did not even know any lawyers, but at least he knew where he stood. His throat was dry and raw. 'Can I get some water?
'Later,' said the Colonel. 'First, you're going to help me out with some information.'
'What could I tell you that your agents don't already know? Raquin was my connection and he's dead.'
'I know all about Raquin. He worked for the Committee.'
Jonny stared at the Colonel. He's baiting me, he thought. It worked, though. 'That's bullshit,' Jonny said.
Zamora grinned. 'It's a buyers market, Gordon.'
'You offer him a deal like mine? Play or die?'
'No,' said the Colonel with great satisfaction. 'He came to us.'
'Balls.'
'Grow up, Gordon. This city is full of troglodytes who'd peddle your ass to some organ broker as soon as look
