restrain the man—but there wasn't much more damage that could be done, for the moment, and more guards would be coming.
"You're injured," Fouad said, his voice light, calm, as if speaking to a child.
"I'm not the one shooting up the place. Too freaking fast for bullets. They're trained to kill—I'm just a geek. Where are they? Send more cops !" He laughed like a loon. "What's fucking keeping them?"
"I am here," Fouad said.
"You're a teacher. Languages, right? Jesus, look at this mess!"
The skinny man was breathing slow and steady, deep, solid. No bullet wounds, only spots of blood on the floor—broken noses, perhaps. Judging by the way the he leaned, he had cracked ribs as well as a dislocated arm. The man was a wreck, but still utterly confident and not in the least concerned by the SIG.
"Doesn't your arm hurt?" Fouad asked.
The engineer stared into Fouad's eyes. "Maybe. I don't know. Trying out new moves, I guess."
There were no audible security alarms in Talos buildings. Guards and other first responders were alerted through earpieces or spex. Strange then that Fouad's own spex still showed no warnings—just two blinking yellow antennas indicating he was still out of range.
"No signal, right? I've cut the network all over the campus," the engineer said. "You look strong. Bring it over here."
"What's your name?" Fouad asked.
"Hey, don't think I'm crazy," the man said. "I'm scared—more scared than you, maybe. But it feels great to be scared! Come on. I don't have a gun."
"It wouldn't be a fair fight," Fouad said, keying in to the engineer's manic rhythm. "I might get hurt."
The man laughed. "You know it, man. You're trained to kill—I can hear it in your voice. All I do is talk to computers. Geek versus killer. You know you can take me."
Fouad stepped to the middle of the hall, gun centered on the programmer's chest.
The five sprawled guards were starting to move. The programmer paid them no obvious attention. One guard had fallen over his Glock—it skittered as he pushed up, a few centimeters from his outstretched hand. His fingers twitched.
Without a backward look, the engineer jumped and horse-kicked the gun down the hall, twisted his foot around, and tapped the guard with his heel.
The guard collapsed with a truncated whimper.
Here was total awareness of environment, more like a martial-arts master than a mouse pusher. All judgments off. Nothing could be trusted.
"You know self-defense," Fouad said. "All Talos employees are so trained."
"Yeah, but I flunked." The programmer raised his good arm, the left arm, and waggled his fingers. "Maybe I can deflect bullets with my thoughts. Anything's possible. Let's try it. Use your pop gun. Shoot me."
Fouad lowered the pistol. "No fighting. We should talk. You're more interesting than anything else around here."
The programmer looked disappointed. He shrugged, then put his hand on his limp arm, testing it. Despite what must have been incredible pain, he wobbled and tugged at the joint, trying to reset it, his attention off Fouad . . . and yet, almost certainly not. He seemed to have a greater sensory bubble of awareness, a heightened sense of space and position. Again, like a martial arts master.
"I popped it bad. Bet I could take you with one arm . . ."
"Let's just talk. Tell me what you're feeling."
The engineer laughed. "Ever see combat?"
"Yes," Fouad said.
"Me too. In Arabia. I was never supposed to fight, I'm important, you know—a software designer, a programmer, an essential asset. But the driver screwed up. He took seven of us down Death Alley by mistake and insurgents blew us all to shit. The driver's head ended up in my lap. My fucking lap ! Dead school kids outside the truck—spread out like raspberry jam. Do you have nightmares, sweats, that sort of thing?"
"Sometimes," Fouad said.
"Interfere with your work?"
"Not much," Fouad said. "I pray. Allah forgives all His children."
"You're a Muslim!"
"Yes," Fouad said.
"A
"You're injured," Fouad said, his voice light, calm, as if speaking to a child.
"I'm not the one shooting up the place. Too freaking fast for bullets. They're trained to kill—I'm just a geek. Where are they? Send more cops !" He laughed like a loon. "What's fucking keeping them?"
"I am here," Fouad said.
"You're a teacher. Languages, right? Jesus, look at this mess!"
The skinny man was breathing slow and steady, deep, solid. No bullet wounds, only spots of blood on the floor—broken noses, perhaps. Judging by the way the he leaned, he had cracked ribs as well as a dislocated arm. The man was a wreck, but still utterly confident and not in the least concerned by the SIG.
"Doesn't your arm hurt?" Fouad asked.
The engineer stared into Fouad's eyes. "Maybe. I don't know. Trying out new moves, I guess."
There were no audible security alarms in Talos buildings. Guards and other first responders were alerted through earpieces or spex. Strange then that Fouad's own spex still showed no warnings—just two blinking yellow antennas indicating he was still out of range.
"No signal, right? I've cut the network all over the campus," the engineer said. "You look strong. Bring it over here."
"What's your name?" Fouad asked.
"Hey, don't think I'm crazy," the man said. "I'm scared—more scared than you, maybe. But it feels great to be scared! Come on. I don't have a gun."
"It wouldn't be a fair fight," Fouad said, keying in to the engineer's manic rhythm. "I might get hurt."
The man laughed. "You know it, man. You're trained to kill—I can hear it in your voice. All I do is talk to computers. Geek versus killer. You know you can take me."
Fouad stepped to the middle of the hall, gun centered on the programmer's chest.
The five sprawled guards were starting to move. The programmer paid them no obvious attention. One guard had fallen over his Glock—it skittered as he pushed up, a few centimeters from his outstretched hand. His fingers twitched.
Without a backward look, the engineer jumped and horse-kicked the gun down the hall, twisted his foot around, and tapped the guard with his heel.
The guard collapsed with a truncated whimper.
Here was total awareness of environment, more like a martial-arts master than a mouse pusher. All judgments off. Nothing could be trusted.
"You know self-defense," Fouad said. "All Talos employees are so trained."
"Yeah, but I flunked." The programmer raised his good arm, the left arm, and waggled his fingers. "Maybe I can deflect bullets with my thoughts. Anything's possible. Let's try it. Use your pop gun. Shoot me."
Fouad lowered the pistol. "No fighting. We should talk. You're more interesting than anything else around here."
The programmer looked disappointed. He shrugged, then put his hand on his limp arm, testing it. Despite what must have been incredible pain, he wobbled and tugged at the joint, trying to reset it, his attention off Fouad . . . and yet, almost certainly not. He seemed to have a greater sensory bubble of awareness, a heightened sense of space and position. Again, like a martial arts master.
"I popped it bad. Bet I could take you with one arm . . ."
"Let's just talk. Tell me what you're feeling."
The engineer laughed. "Ever see combat?"
"Yes," Fouad said.
"Me too. In Arabia. I was never supposed to fight, I'm important, you know—a software designer, a programmer, an essential asset. But the driver screwed up. He took seven of us down Death Alley by mistake and insurgents blew us all to shit. The driver's head ended up in my lap. My fucking lap ! Dead school kids outside the truck—spread out like raspberry jam. Do you have nightmares, sweats, that sort of thing?"
"Sometimes," Fouad said.
"Interfere with your work?"
"Not much," Fouad said. "I pray. Allah forgives all His children."
"You're a Muslim!"
"Yes," Fouad said.
"A
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