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- Ричард Морган
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"
Good
enough
.
You
want
to
stand
up
?
"
"
What
do
you
think
?
"
Ortega
levered
herself
to
her
knees
on
her
uninjured
arm
and
then
stood
.
She
grimaced
at
the
movement
of
her
jacket
against
the
wound
.
"
Fuck
,
that
stings
.
"
"
I
think
that
’
s
what
the
guy
in
the
doorway
said
.
"
Leaning
on
me
,
she
turned
to
stare
,
eyes
centimetres
away
.
I
deadpanned
it
,
and
the
laughter
broke
across
her
face
like
a
sunrise
.
She
shook
her
head
.
"
Jesus
,
Kovacs
,
you
are
one
sick
motherfucker
.
They
teach
you
to
tell
post
-
firefight
jokes
in
the
Corps
or
is
it
just
you
?
"
I
guided
her
towards
the
exit
.
"
Just
me
.
Come
on
,
let
’
s
get
you
some
fresh
air
.
"
Behind
us
,
there
was
a
sudden
flailing
sound
.
I
jerked
around
and
saw
the
synthetic
sleeve
staggering
upright
.
Its
head
was
smashed
and
disfigured
where
my
last
shot
had
torn
the
side
of
the
skull
off
,
and
the
gun
hand
was
spasmed
open
at
the
end
of
a
stiff
,
blood
-
streaked
right
arm
,
but
the
other
arm
was
flexing
,
hand
curling
into
a
fist
.
The
synth
stumbled
against
the
chair
,
righted
itself
and
came
towards
us
,
dragging
its
right
leg
.
I
drew
the
Nemex
and
pointed
it
"
Fight
’
s
over
,
"
I
advised
.
The
slack
face
grinned
at
me
.
Another
halting
step
.
I
frowned
.
