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"
Lieutenant
Ortega
and
her
colleagues
were
installed
in
the
virtuality
approximately
two
minutes
ago
.
Irene
Elliott
has
been
established
there
since
earlier
this
afternoon
.
She
asked
not
to
be
disturbed
.
"
"
What
ratio
are
you
running
at
the
moment
?
"
"
Eleven
point
fifteen
.
Irene
Elliott
requested
it
.
"
I
nodded
to
myself
as
I
climbed
out
of
the
rack
.
Eleven
point
one
five
was
a
standard
working
ratio
for
datarats
.
It
was
also
the
title
of
a
particularly
bloody
but
otherwise
unmemorable
Micky
Nozawa
experia
flic
.
The
only
clear
detail
I
could
recall
was
that
,
unexpectedly
,
Micky
’
s
character
got
killed
at
the
end
.
I
hoped
it
wasn
’
t
an
omen
.
"
All
right
,
"
I
said
.
"
Let
’
s
see
what
you
’
ve
got
.
"
Between
the
dimly
seen
heave
and
swell
of
the
sea
and
the
lights
of
the
cabin
,
there
was
a
lemon
grove
.
I
went
along
a
dirt
track
between
the
trees
and
the
citrus
fragrance
felt
like
cleansing
.
From
the
long
grass
on
either
side
,
cicadas
whirred
reassuringly
.
In
a
velvet
sky
above
were
stars
like
fixed
gems
and
behind
the
cabin
the
land
rose
into
gentle
hills
and
rocky
outcroppings
.
The
vague
white
forms
of
sheep
moved
in
the
darkness
on
the
slopes
,
and
from
somewhere
I
heard
a
dog
bark
.
The
lights
of
a
fishing
village
glimmered
off
to
one
side
,
less
bright
than
the
stars
.
There
were
hurricane
lamps
slung
from
the
upper
rail
of
the
cabin
’
s
front
porch
,
but
no
one
was
seated
at
the
wooden
tables
there
.
The
front
wall
bore
a
riotous
abstract
mural
curling
around
and
out
from
the
luminous
lettering
of
a
sign
that
read
Pension
Flower
of
‘
68
.
Windchimes
dangled
along
the
railing
,
winking
and
turning
in
the
faint
breeze
that
blew
in
from
the
sea
.
They
made
a
variety
of
gentle
sounds
from
glassy
belling
to
hollow
wooden
percussion
.
On
the
unkempt
sloping
lawn
in
front
of
the
porch
someone
had
set
out
an
incongruous
collection
of
sofas
and
armchairs
in
a
rough
circle
,
so
it
looked
as
if
the
cabin
had
been
lifted
bodily
off
its
furnished
interior
and
set
down
again
further
up
the
slope
.
From
the
gathered
seats
came
the
soft
sound
of
voices
and
the
red
embers
of
lit
cigarettes
.
I
reached
for
my
own
supply
,
realised
I
had
neither
the
packet
nor
the
need
any
more
and
grimaced
wryly
to
myself
in
the
dark
.
Bautista
’
s
voice
rose
above
the
murmur
of
conversation
.
"
Kovacs
?
That
you
?
"
