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- Ричард Морган
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"
The
what
?
"
"
Sia
.
The
heat
.
"
Her
voice
was
rising
.
She
stepped
away
from
me
.
"
We
had
this
,
man
—
"
"
No
.
"
I
took
a
step
towards
her
and
she
dropped
into
a
competent
-
looking
defensive
crouch
.
I
backed
up
again
,
voice
low
.
"
No
,
I
’
m
her
mother
.
"
Taut
silence
.
She
glared
at
me
.
"
Bullshit
.
Lizzie
’
s
ma
’
s
in
the
store
.
"
"
No
.
"
I
pulled
her
hand
back
to
my
groin
.
"
Feel
.
There
’
s
nothing
there
.
They
sleeved
me
in
this
,
but
I
’
m
a
woman
.
I
don
’
t
,
I
couldn
’
t
…
"
She
unbent
fractionally
from
her
crouch
,
hands
tugging
down
almost
unwillingly
.
"
That
looks
like
prime
tank
flesh
to
me
,
"
she
said
untrustingly
.
"
You
just
come
out
of
the
store
,
how
come
you
’
re
not
paroled
in
some
bonebag
junkie
’
s
sleeve
?
"
"
It
’
s
not
parole
.
"
The
Corps
’
deep
-
cover
training
came
rocketing
in
across
my
mind
like
a
flight
of
low
-
level
strike
jets
,
spinning
vapour
-
trail
lies
on
the
edge
of
plausibility
and
half
-
known
detail
.
Something
inside
me
tilted
with
the
joy
of
mission
time
.
"
You
know
what
I
went
down
for
?
"
"
Lizzie
said
mindbites
,
something
—
"
