Page 117 of Throwing Fire

“Sir?”

“Snow,” I remind her. “Once I take down B, however it goes, I want you to be ready to step up and take over the plant. Kez’ll announce the transition.”

Payton nods. “What about Miz Tyng? She’s arriving at noon.”

Or she might be sitting on ice back in Hemos.

“Let’s see how this goes,” I say.

“Keegan is the plant’s second-in-command. She’s very knowledgeable about the methane conversion process and it is unlikely she shares B’s prejudices, as she’s a mod herself. Should I assign her to assist Miz Tyng?”

“Can you do that?”

“No, but Miz Kerryon can.” Payton pulls out her palmtop, taps in a series of commands and holds it out for Kez to authorize.

“The amount of trust your people place in machines is terrifying,” Acker murmurs to me as Kez presses her thumb to Payton’s palmtop.

“That’s why I like doin’ things face-to-face,” I respond. “Less opportunity for misunderstandings.”

Kez snorts. “More opportunity for bloodshed.”

I elbow her with my strapped arm. “Do I look like I’m up for bloodshed?”

She gives my katanas a pointed glance. “Yes.”

Exeter chuckles at our exchange but doesn’t relax his ready stance. I can tell he likes being out in the open as little as I do.

“Let’s go.” I draw Kez against my bad side and point across the platform to the glaz lift entrance. One of Exeter’s mercs takes point, Acker falls in on Kez’s far side, Payton and Exeter follow a step behind us and the last merc takes up the rear. Exeter’s done no more than nod to get the other two mercs to form up. He wasn’t kidding about his experience, and it shows in the mercs’ organization.

There’s no reception committee waiting at the lift, but since it’s early and we’ve thrown a big fucking spanner into their works, that’s understandable. Not very professional, though. I can tell Payton has the same thought by the way the corners of her mouth turn down as we pass through the outer security doors without challenge and board the grav lift.

“This place is wide open,” Exeter observes as the lift begins to drop.

“The doors wouldn’t have opened to anyone who wasn’t authorized,” Payton says primly. “I gave the AI the clearances before we landed.”

“Like the man said, you people rely too much on tech. Two blasts,” Exeter says, patting the holster on his thigh, which now contains his big gun, a Smitty Fifty-Six. “I could have been through those doors. And look how vulnerable you are to abuse from the inside. Miz Kerryon created an emergency your own people can’t tell is fake, because everything runs through your AI.”

“Yeah, SecHead,” I say to Acker. “Better tighten up the meat security ‘round here.”

Acker gives me a stink-eye even blacker than Kez’s. “Remind me why any of this is my problem?”

“Cause the job’s got good perks,” I say.

“Not so far,” Acker grumbles.

I’m grinning at him when the lift reaches the lobby and the doors snick open.

The missing reception committee’s waiting for us in the lobby, which is a smaller-scale version of the atrium at Tyng Tower in Hemos. All of Tyng’s buildings follow the same basic design, which makes it easy to find your way around, even if it’s a nightmare from a security perspective.

It’s a very small committee. A single, slender Pan-Asian girl in a short, very untraditional kimono. At first glance, she looks covered in abstract, silver and black tattoos, with just the brown oval of her face left bare. Then the light catches on the circuitry patterns and I realize she’s a mech-mod, her entire hide imprinted and implanted with augmentations.

Her eyes, silver disks which spin hypnotically between chromed lids, tick over our little party. She curtseys, holding out the kimono’s miniskirt with her metal-tipped fingers. “Miz Kerryon, Mister Snow, Miz Payton, thank you for coming.”

“Sawhet,” Payton responds. “Where is the Xec team?”

“In Operations. Please let me escort you.”

Payton glances at Kez, who nods. Operations is at the top of the tower, two levels below the Xec offices, so I’m surprised when the mech-mod turns and sets off across the lobby toward the lower-level access.

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