person with Dale always left me creeped out, because his dedication to making sure he died of lung cancer made him a walking monument to the tobacco trade. No one said anything about her.
Grace. Grace Roberts, according to Dr. Egghead. When she focused on the screen, I focused on her. Must remember her name. Couldn’t forget her face. The smooth sweep of her nose, the way she kept her golden hair pulled back, and enough curves to tell me I sat across from a woman, not a girl.
Must not stare, I reminded myself. Last time I let my eyes wander, I wound up climbing a fire escape. I couldn’t look away, but I could keep my eyes off her rear. Okay, I looked once. Twice, just to be sure I saw right. If I had any prayer of not getting chewed out, I’d have to look at my laptop or her chin, ignoring all points in between.
Work women. Completely off-limits. Absolutely forbidden, and in this case, totally unforgettable. She looked to the director over and over. Probably hoping for approval, recognition that Grace had done a good job.
And my reputation must have preceded me, because no matter how I moved my head or tapped my pen, she kept her eyes off me. Smart woman. Of course, she was upset about the smudges on that spell.
It sounded like she’d drunk Dr. Egghead’s Kool-Aid and gone back for seconds. The name “corpse-organism” didn’t do a meat-skin justice. In fact, it implied exactly the wrong thing, in my opinion. That it was alive.
The good doctor and the director argued over the significance of “the heart,” while I turned over its words in my head. Dale raised a shaky hand and waited for our attention before wheezing out, “It asked for Brynner by name. Carson.” Dale’s arms trembled as he slapped another nicotine patch on. By my watch, he’d made it almost eleven minutes without a cigar, which was an improvement.
The director’s eyes swiped to me like a sword blade through a meat-skin. “Mr. Carson? Confirm?”
I nodded. “And it asked if I brought the heart. Said my blood took it, and my blood would pay if it wasn’t returned.” When I said “heart,” Grace leaned in, listening. I locked my gaze on the laptop rather than let it coast down her cleavage.
Director Bismuth nodded. “Indeed. The same Re-Animus you dispatched two nights before. Angry about losing a host?”
I shook my head, wishing I could ask everyone to leave before I answered. “It said it was delivering a message. And it was talking about my dad.”
Three
GRACE
The co-org spoke? About Brynner’s dad, Heinrich Carson? The original field operative, killing co-orgs before there was a BSI. Author of most of the field procedures. Also, distributor of countless superstitions and other bunk. I knew the name. Knew the legend of the man that even the Re-Animus feared.
I couldn’t contain the question. “What did it say about him?” Brynner turned toward me, his face suddenly tense. Worried. Then he looked back to Director Bismuth. “Could we discuss this in private?”
She nodded, her gaze never leaving me. “Ms. Roberts, I’d like a report on the spell by eleven o’clock. Both a literal translation and your best interpretation of what remains.”
“It’s not a spell.” I enunciated each word and met her gaze.
Challenging the director of the BSI might not be a good career move, but letting professional people bandy around words like “magic” was even worse. “There’s no such thing.”
“Get her out of here.” Brynner glared at me, his chest puffed out like a rooster.
Dr. Thomas beamed at me. “A woman after my own heart. The number of times they’ve thrown me out of—” He cut off as the director’s gaze swept toward him.
And on to me. The director kept her tone completely neutral. “I’ll be waiting for that report. The good doctor will find you a temporary office while you work to translate that . . . passage.”
“Spell.” The man with the oxygen mask took three tries to spit out that one word over his ragged cough. “Call it what it is.”
My BSI badge didn’t have a black diamond in the corner for nothing. I’d registered myself as a confirmed atheist and absolute skeptic days after taking the job. With the minuscule pay hike came a duty, an obligation to be the voice of reason. “I’ll call it what it is. An artifact. An engraving. A text.” I looked to each of them in turn. “You don’t need terms like