that God was watching. Jordan suddenly discovered that he really needed to shit. He sat down and counted the money. Four thousand Britische marks. He felt the blood leave his head, his bowels turn to water.
The B-mark was the hardest of hard currencies â only Norlonto used it internally, and even there four thousand would last a couple of months. In the community economies you could get laughable sums of funny money for it, even after bribing the guards. For a hundred B-marks your average checkpoint charlie would sell you his Kalashnikov and probably his sisterâs address.
Jordan stared at the white paint of the stall door, losing himself like he sometimes did at the screen. Nothing seemed real. He remembered a word of wisdom that he had once, delightedly, checked out in a lucid dream: If you can fly, youâre dreaming. He thought about it for a minute, and no, he didnât float upwardsâ¦
Just as well, because his trousers were around his ankles.
When he stepped through the door of the office he found everybody yelling at everybody else.
âWhatâs going on?â he asked.
That got all those in earshot yelling at him. Mrs Lawson pushed her way through. He was relieved to see she looked relieved to see him. She grabbed his elbow and tugged him towards his own screen. He stared at it. Bands of colour warped and writhed, almost hypnotically complex patterns appearing momentarily and then changing before he could appreciate them.
âThis has got to be a terminal malfunction,â he said. âEither that or the world economy has gone to h â Hades!â He recalled the window displays. âItâs not, uh, some designerâs palette thatâs got its wires crossed with our system?â
âNice try,â Mrs Lawson said. âJust donât suggest it to the designers â theyâre practically hysterical already.â
She glared around and several people slunk back abashed.
âThe engineers have been in all lunchtime and assure us thereâs nothing wrong with the hardware. And, yes, we have checked and it isnât â hee hee â the terminal crisis of capitalism, either.â
A lowercase thought slid along the bottom of Jordanâs mind.
our sleeper viruses have survived twenty years
The room swayed slightly. Get a grip.
âItâs all right,â he said, loud enough to be heard by enough people to amplify and spread the phony reassurance. âI have an idea as to whatâs behind this. Iâll just have to check over some of your files, Mrs Lawson.â
He looked her in the eye and gave a tiny jerk of his head.
âOK.â She raised her voice to a pitch and volume that reminded him sheâd once been a schoolteacher. âDo something else!â she said to the rest of the room. âRead a manual if you have to!â
She shut the office door firmly behind them.
âThis place secure?â he said immediately.
âIf it isnât, nowhere is.â
âDo you have a landlink to the security forces? The real ones I mean, uh, no offence to the Warriorsââ
âNone taken.â
She smiled at his visible shock. Jordan continued hurriedly: âCould you check that the subversives arenât starting a big push?â
She said nothing.
âLook, Iâm not suggesting that any of their, uh, black propaganda is true but they might be getting into sabotageâ¦â
He trailed off, feeling heâd said too much.
âThatâs a point. Besides, it could be more, well, local forces, shall we say? Some anti-Christian faction.â
Mrs Lawson picked up a phone and walked about with it, talking in the clipped argot of the security professional. (God, heâd never suspected she was a cop !)
ââsitrep update request, BC . Check ECM on LANS â¦yesâ¦OK negative on target specificityâ¦copy, got you, logging out.â
She clicked the phone off.
âWeâre
The B-mark was the hardest of hard currencies â only Norlonto used it internally, and even there four thousand would last a couple of months. In the community economies you could get laughable sums of funny money for it, even after bribing the guards. For a hundred B-marks your average checkpoint charlie would sell you his Kalashnikov and probably his sisterâs address.
Jordan stared at the white paint of the stall door, losing himself like he sometimes did at the screen. Nothing seemed real. He remembered a word of wisdom that he had once, delightedly, checked out in a lucid dream: If you can fly, youâre dreaming. He thought about it for a minute, and no, he didnât float upwardsâ¦
Just as well, because his trousers were around his ankles.
When he stepped through the door of the office he found everybody yelling at everybody else.
âWhatâs going on?â he asked.
That got all those in earshot yelling at him. Mrs Lawson pushed her way through. He was relieved to see she looked relieved to see him. She grabbed his elbow and tugged him towards his own screen. He stared at it. Bands of colour warped and writhed, almost hypnotically complex patterns appearing momentarily and then changing before he could appreciate them.
âThis has got to be a terminal malfunction,â he said. âEither that or the world economy has gone to h â Hades!â He recalled the window displays. âItâs not, uh, some designerâs palette thatâs got its wires crossed with our system?â
âNice try,â Mrs Lawson said. âJust donât suggest it to the designers â theyâre practically hysterical already.â
She glared around and several people slunk back abashed.
âThe engineers have been in all lunchtime and assure us thereâs nothing wrong with the hardware. And, yes, we have checked and it isnât â hee hee â the terminal crisis of capitalism, either.â
A lowercase thought slid along the bottom of Jordanâs mind.
our sleeper viruses have survived twenty years
The room swayed slightly. Get a grip.
âItâs all right,â he said, loud enough to be heard by enough people to amplify and spread the phony reassurance. âI have an idea as to whatâs behind this. Iâll just have to check over some of your files, Mrs Lawson.â
He looked her in the eye and gave a tiny jerk of his head.
âOK.â She raised her voice to a pitch and volume that reminded him sheâd once been a schoolteacher. âDo something else!â she said to the rest of the room. âRead a manual if you have to!â
She shut the office door firmly behind them.
âThis place secure?â he said immediately.
âIf it isnât, nowhere is.â
âDo you have a landlink to the security forces? The real ones I mean, uh, no offence to the Warriorsââ
âNone taken.â
She smiled at his visible shock. Jordan continued hurriedly: âCould you check that the subversives arenât starting a big push?â
She said nothing.
âLook, Iâm not suggesting that any of their, uh, black propaganda is true but they might be getting into sabotageâ¦â
He trailed off, feeling heâd said too much.
âThatâs a point. Besides, it could be more, well, local forces, shall we say? Some anti-Christian faction.â
Mrs Lawson picked up a phone and walked about with it, talking in the clipped argot of the security professional. (God, heâd never suspected she was a cop !)
ââsitrep update request, BC . Check ECM on LANS â¦yesâ¦OK negative on target specificityâ¦copy, got you, logging out.â
She clicked the phone off.
âWeâre