"L. Timmel Duchamp - Quinn's Deal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

Quinn just wanted to go home. ? Look, can I have a couple of days to think about it??

? A couple of days?? Penneman said, letting his voice squeak in total incredulity. ? I don't think you get
it, man. This offer isn't going to be open for too long, especially to a person in your condition.
Considering that you went into a diabetic coma this evening, you've got to bear in mind that putting off a
yes-decision could be jeopardizing the very capacity the patron is interested in tapping. Capisce, my
man??

The rush of rage that surged through Quinn brought on a major, full-body case of hot, seething sweats.
For the first time he thought of Uncle Kenny and his hand grenade with actual wistfulness. Maybe the old
guys were right, maybe he had missed living in the last good times, when men still had a chance to fight
the system. Maybe the Age of the Deal wasn't better. He'd always hated hearing that riff the old guys
were always getting into, disgusting, self-pitying laments for the old ? consumer society,? he'd always
hated talk about how the younger generation shouldn't be making deals, but destroying their world with
revolution, he especially got furious at the major jerks of the boomer and X generations telling his
generation that they had nothing to lose but their so-called ? fucking chains, man.? Quinn's parents, in
particular, ragged him every chance they got. They just couldn't forgive him for taking the Population
Foundation's deal, trading his fertility for two years of college (and the decent job he'd been able to snag
as a result). But then they had no sense of the deal, those old ones, still wrapped up in the idea that
everything could be measured in money.

The deal. Right. Quinn might be pissed as hell at the preppy jerk sitting across the desk from him, but the
deal was the issue, and nothing else. ? I don't like dealing without sleeping on it at least a night,? Quinn
said. (As though, he thought, he'd be able to sleep, given all that was coming down.)

But Penneman stubbornly stuck; he would not be budged. (The advantage, after all, was his. And Quinn
knew it.) After a few more minutes of sparring, Quinn yielded. ? All right,? he said. ? All right. Let's
have a look at the contract.?

Penneman printed out the text and Quinn read it, holding the paper in his ever-trembling, sweaty fingers.
These guys are so damned clever. I'm backed into a corner, and this bastard knows it. Well, at
least the damned thing will be non-obtrusive. I'll never know it's there, except when I remember
the deal. Says here in black and white that if there's any sign of damage, it's to be removed and all
the damage is to be repaired at the patron's expense. All I have to do is forget it's even there...

Before Quinn left, Penneman set him up with weekend appointments in the hospital's gene therapy and
cyber-impant departments. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn't miss so much as a day's
work. ? It's a great deal,? Penneman said as he handed Quinn a voucher for a temporary supply of
insulin patches from the hospital's pharmacy. ? You're a spectacularly lucky guy, you know??

Right. He was so lucky it took him an hour and a half of missed connections to get home. With luck like
his, a guy could really go places.

***

By the time Quinn made it home-feeling the entire trip as though he were in danger of total collapse-he
had worked out a necessity for secrecy. Ordinarily he spoke to Courtney Greenleaf without discretion or
discrimination (except, of course, for those myriad minor-but self-revealing-sorts of things that one would
never, in one's right mind, tell another soul). She was not only his house-mate and landlord, but his friend