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- Ричард Морган
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Time
turned
dreamlike
.
The
neurachem
made
everything
impossibly
slow
,
separate
images
drifting
to
the
floor
of
my
vision
like
autumn
leaves
.
The
package
had
fallen
apart
.
The
woman
was
holding
a
compact
Sunjet
,
the
man
a
machine
pistol
.
I
cleared
the
Nemex
and
started
firing
from
the
hip
.
The
door
to
the
gantry
burst
open
and
another
figure
stood
in
the
opening
,
brandishing
a
pistol
in
each
fist
.
Beside
me
,
Ortega
’
s
Smith
&
Wesson
boomed
and
blew
the
new
arrival
back
through
the
door
like
a
reversed
film
sequence
of
his
entrance
.
My
first
shot
ruptured
the
headrest
of
the
woman
’
s
seat
,
showering
her
with
white
padding
.
The
Sunjet
sizzled
,
the
beam
went
wide
.
The
second
slug
exploded
her
head
and
turned
the
drifting
white
flecks
red
.
Ortega
yelled
in
fury
.
She
was
still
firing
,
upward
my
peripheral
sense
told
me
.
Somewhere
above
us
,
her
shots
splintered
glass
.
The
machine
gunner
had
struggled
to
his
feet
.
I
registered
the
bland
features
of
a
synth
and
put
a
pair
of
slugs
into
him
.
He
staggered
back
against
the
wall
,
still
raising
the
gun
.
I
dived
for
the
floor
.
The
dome
above
our
heads
smashed
inward
.
Ortega
yelled
something
and
I
rolled
sideways
.
A
body
tumbled
bonelessly
head
over
feet
onto
the
ground
next
to
me
.
The
machine
pistol
cut
loose
,
aimless
.
Ortega
yelled
again
and
flattened
herself
on
the
floor
.
I
rolled
upright
on
the
lap
of
the
dead
woman
and
shot
the
synthetic
again
,
three
times
in
rapid
succession
.
The
gunfire
choked
off
.
