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Out
in
the
Reach
power
lashed
down
from
an
orbital
and
lit
the
kitchen
in
tones
of
blue
.
I
could
hear
the
maelstrom
calling
.
"
I
said
don
’
t
—
"
I
closed
my
eyes
and
clawed
the
gun
off
the
table
.
Coming
back
from
the
dead
can
be
rough
.
In
the
Envoy
Corps
they
teach
you
to
let
go
before
storage
.
Stick
it
in
neutral
and
float
.
It
’
s
the
first
lesson
and
the
trainers
drill
it
into
you
from
day
one
.
Hard
-
eyed
Virginia
Vidaura
,
dancer
’
s
body
poised
inside
the
shapeless
Corps
coveralls
as
she
paced
in
front
of
us
in
the
induction
room
.
Don
’
t
worry
about
anything
,
she
said
,
and
you
’
ll
be
ready
for
it
.
A
decade
later
,
I
met
her
again
,
in
a
holding
pen
at
the
New
Kanagawa
justice
facility
.
She
was
going
down
for
eighty
to
a
century
;
excessively
armed
robbery
and
organic
damage
.
The
last
thing
she
said
to
me
when
they
walked
her
out
of
the
cell
was
:
"
Don
’
t
worry
kid
,
they
’
ll
store
it
.
"
Then
she
bent
her
head
to
light
a
cigarette
,
drew
the
smoke
hard
into
lungs
she
no
longer
gave
a
damn
about
and
set
off
down
the
corridor
as
if
to
a
tedious
briefing
.
From
the
narrow
angle
of
vision
afforded
me
by
the
cell
gate
,
I
watched
the
pride
in
that
walk
and
I
whispered
the
words
to
myself
like
a
mantra
.
Don
’
t
worry
,
they
’
ll
store
it
.
It
was
a
superbly
double
-
edged
piece
of
street
wisdom
.
Bleak
faith
in
the
efficiency
of
the
penal
system
,
and
a
clue
to
the
elusive
state
of
mind
required
to
steer
you
past
the
rocks
of
psychosis
.
Whatever
you
feel
,
whatever
you
’
re
thinking
,
whatever
you
are
when
they
store
you
,
that
’
s
what
you
’
ll
be
when
you
come
out
.
With
states
of
high
anxiety
,
that
can
be
a
problem
.
So
you
let
go
.
Stick
it
in
neutral
.
Disengage
and
float
.
If
you
have
time
.
I
came
thrashing
up
out
of
the
tank
,
one
hand
plastered
across
my
chest
searching
for
the
wounds
,
the
other
clutching
at
a
non
-
existent
weapon
.
The
weight
hit
me
like
a
hammer
and
I
collapsed
back
into
the
floatation
gel
.
I
flailed
with
my
arms
,
caught
one
elbow
painfully
on
the
side
of
the
tank
and
gasped
.
Gobbets
of
gel
poured
into
my
mouth
and
down
my
throat
.
I
snapped
my
mouth
shut
and
got
a
hold
on
the
hatch
coaming
,
but
the
stuff
was
everywhere
.
In
my
eyes
,
burning
my
nose
and
throat
,
and
slippery
under
my
fingers
.
The
weight
was
forcing
my
grip
on
the
hatch
loose
,
sitting
on
my
chest
like
a
high
-
g
manoeuvre
,
pressing
me
down
into
the
gel
.
My
body
heaved
violently
in
the
confines
of
the
tank
.
Floatation
gel
?
I
was
drowning
.
Abruptly
,
there
was
a
strong
grip
on
my
arm
and
I
was
hauled
coughing
into
an
upright
position
.
At
about
the
same
time
I
was
working
out
there
were
no
wounds
in
my
chest
,
someone
wiped
a
towel
roughly
across
my
face
and
I
could
see
.
I
decided
to
save
that
pleasure
for
later
and
concentrated
on
getting
the
contents
of
the
tank
out
of
my
nose
and
throat
.
For
about
half
a
minute
I
stayed
sitting
,
head
down
,
coughing
out
the
gel
and
trying
to
work
out
why
everything
weighed
so
much
.
"
So
much
for
training
.
"
It
was
a
hard
,
male
voice
,
the
sort
that
habitually
hangs
around
justice
facilities
.
"
What
did
they
teach
you
in
the
Envoys
anyway
,
Kovacs
?
"
