Ha-ha, right? What a riot, this guy.

He did something like this after every hit. They were all annoying, but do you know what really hurt? After Pink died in the line of duty, guess what I had waiting for me in my locker? An enormous pile—I mean the mother lode—of dog biscuits. That isn’t even a joke. It has no setup. It has no punch line. It’s just plain old mean. And just like Schermer: The only thing in the world you love just died? Well, here are some of his snacks! Get it? Get it?

God I wish Herk had been there.

And that he were here now.

“Yes!” Schermer cries again from the doorway, mouth glistening, arms flung wide. He does a tippy-toe kind of love-struck dance, smoothing across the floor toward me. I’m still tangled on the concrete and he descends on me, sort of wrapping his arms around my head and making smooching noises. “Yes, I will marry you, Otto! I thought you’d never ask! But”—and here he emits a melodramatic burble while chewing histrionically on his fingernails—“what will we do to survive? How can we live on the wages of a...stoolie?”¹⁰

I try to shrug him off me but Schermer is stronger than I am and it takes me a few tries. When I finally get free I’m breathing heavy and can tell I’m blushing. In the struggle something hit my nose and I can feel my eyes starting to water. This makes me feel like I’m about eight years old.

“Boy, that was a close one,” Schermer says. “If you had tripped that alert it would have just about finished you off as a pulse, wouldn’t it? That would be a real shame.”

“Shouldn’t you be making rounds?” I say, trying to make it as sneery as possible.

“I wonder what would happen if I were just to touch it. . . .” And he tries to reach past me and poke the glass. I swat his hand away just in time.

“That’s not funny, Schermer.”

“It sure would be awkward to explain a false alarm if somehow the cloud got stimulated—” And again he makes a stab over my shoulder at the K’plua.

“Cut the shit.”

“Or if the bossman knew you were going to break cover to your girl?”

“Stop it.”

“Make me, Starks,” he says, making fists. “You fucking pill-popper.”

This is a touchy subject. Pulses are required to wear imperfs— imperforables, synthetic aramid fiber blend bodysuits that are flexible but impenetrable to needle puncture. Janus thinks this is a good idea because we are so often the target of tranquilizer guns. Only infrequently do you see a pulse get shot at with a bullet; in an environment that is as loaded with motion sensors as ours, it attracts a lot less attention to have someone slump into a sleeping pile. Exploding flesh sets off the sensors. Hot blood trips the therms. You get the idea.

But to me imperfs seem like a bad idea. They promote a false sense of security. They don’t save you from getting slipped a mickey in your coffee. They are obviously useless against airborne agents. And because they are not hooded they leave the neck and face exposed. If I were sharpshooting talent I’d just smile and think, “Well hellooooo, jugular.”