Page 3 of Agent Zero
“Just the same, sir.Low emotional noise, performs beautifully.Can’t find a damn thing wrong with him or his work.The only problem is?—”
“—his habit of going off by himself, yes.”Control paused.“I interrupted.My apologies.You were about to tell me something else?”
How did the man do it?It was goddamn unreal.
Bronson’s stomach rumbled a little.Maybe a salad would be better; his last doctor had clucked something stupid about cholesterol at him.“I have an analysis that says he’s got more noise than he’s showing.”
“Yes, our pet actuary.I’m sure it’s dressed up with percentages.”
“Never been wrong before, sir.”Really, once emotion was taken out of it, the human brain was a fine instrument.
The thought of a bacon cheeseburger cropped up.Maybe with onion rings.He could treat himself.Maybe he’d even send Three to carry it up from the front desk when it arrived.
A short silence.Whatever was going through Control’s head was probably unpleasant, but at the moment Bronson didn’t care as much he might.Finally, the voice came through the speakers again, a little sharper this time.“You want resources to keep following him around?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not so sure about your wonder boy as you used to be?”
As if this wasn’t Control’s project all the way, and the profits from the civilian side going into deep, deep crony pockets.The economic benefit to democracy was ancillary, but that was enough for Mrs.Bronson’s boy Ritchie.“I believe in being safe, sir.”
“Humph.”Another slight click, a tapping noise.A pen against a desktop, maybe.“Granted.He’s due back in two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a full psych workup on him then.Let’s see if our little insurance adjustor is right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s Eight?”
Bronson almost winced.“Still unfortunate.”
“Still hiding that girl, huh?A shame.Well, as long as his performance doesn’t suffer, he can keep going.They can’t all be as bright as our boy Six.”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on, then.”A sudden movement, and the screen blanked.Bronson held his breath until it powered down all the way.Then he exhaled.His armpits were damp.
After a short while, his chair squeaked a little as he turned.Across the office’s dim interior, he could barely see the slim womanshape near the door, hair sleeked back, a gleam of her eyes, just the barest suggestion of the tailored blazer.Even if she wasn’t as voluptuous as he might have preferred, she still had good legs, and he liked seeing them.“Lights, Three.”
“Yes, sir.”A brisk, efficient movement, and the sudden flood of illumination stung.He blinked, surveyed her legs again and once more noticed her depressing dearth of chest.She was getting skinny.
“Analysis, Three.”
“Confusion, sir.”
Well, that was unexpected.He blinked, examining her blank, serene expression.Like a doll.No makeup, but flawless skin.Maybe he should order her to wear lipstick, something slut-red.Now that would be exciting.
“Yes?I mean, ah, please explain.”Goddamn it.They should have succeeded in complete emotional noise suppression with a man; it grated on you to have to ask something with tits for anexplanation.
She didn’t move, her hands empty and loose, her stillness eerie.Her shoes were functional black nurse’s brogans instead of a nice pair of heels.Of course, she was supposed to be a bodyguard, too.“Control is exhibiting less attention to detail, and is also allowing emotional noise to become more of a variable in program processes.This is a marked change.It indicates the program itself is drifting.”
Bodyguard in a skirt.What was the world coming to?“Damn.”Now that he thought about it, she was right.That was the shortest call he’d had with Control in a while, and there had been other program agents brought in and canceled for less deviance than Eight was currently displaying.Were they loosening protocols, or...
Bronson tapped a paper clip on the desk’s glass surface.Eyed the stack of paperwork.“The question is, changing to what?”
“I would require more data, sir.”She was even pretty, in an unremarkable way.Maybe he should tell her to wear her hair down.
