Free Luminous by Greg Egan Page A

vein forty-eight hours in advance, put yourself through a range of typical activities so it can memorize the rhythms . . . then you inject the cargo into the trap. Simple, foolproof, effective." Blood trickled down across my chest onto the sheet. I was suddenly very glad that I hadn't buried the thing deeper, after all. "So how do you retrieve the cargo, yourself?" "That would be telling."
    "Then tell me now, and save yourself some trouble." She rotated the scalpel between thumb and forefinger impatiently. My skin did a cold bum all over, nerve ends jangling, capillaries closing down as blood dived for cover. I said, "Trouble gives me hypertension."
    She smiled down at me thinly, conceding the stalemate—then peeled off one stained surgical glove, took out her notepad, and made a call to a medical equipment supplier. She listed some devices, which would get around the problem—a blood pressure probe, a more sophisticated pump, a suitable computerized interface— arguing heatedly in fluent Mandarin to extract a pro m ise of a speedy delivery. Then she put down the notepad and placed her ungloved hand on my shoulder. "You can relax now. We won't have long to wait."
    I squirmed, as if angrily shrugging off her hand—and succeeded in getting some blood on her skin. She didn't say a word, but she must have realized at once how careless she'd been; she climbed off the bed and headed for the washbasin, and I heard the water running. Then she started retching.
    I called out cheerfully, "Let me know when you're ready for the antidote." I heard her approach, and I turned to face her. She was ashen, her face contorted with nausea, eyes and nose strea m ing mucus and tears. "Tell me where it is!" "Uncuff me, and I'll get it for you."
    "No! No deals!"
    "Fine. Then you'd better start looking, yourself."
    She picked up the scalpel and brandished it in my face. "Screw the cargo. I'll do ;r!" She was shivering like a feverish child, uselessly trying to stem the flood from her nostrils with the back of her hand.
    I said coldly, "If you cut me again, you'll lose more than the cargo."
    She turned away and vomited; it was thin and gray, blood-streaked. The toxin was persuading cells in her stomach lining to commit suicide en masse.
    "Uncuff me. It'll kill you. It doesn't take long."
    She wiped her mouth, steeled herself, made as if to speak—then started puking again. I knew, first-hand, exactly how bad she was feeling. Keeping it down was like trying to swallow a mixture of shit and sulphuric acid. Bringing it up was like evisceration.
    I said, "In thirty seconds, you'll be too weak to help yourself—even if I told you where to look. So if I'm not free ..."
    She produced a gun and a set of keys, uncuffed me, then stood by the foot of the bed, shaking badly but keeping me targeted. I dressed quickly, ignoring her threats, bandaging my arm with a miraculously clean spare sock before putting on a T-shirt and a jacket. She sagged to her knees, still aiming the gun more or less in my direction—but her eyes were swollen half-shut, and bri m ming with yellow fluid. I thought about trying to disarm her, but it didn't seem worth the risk.
    I packed my remaining clothes, then glanced around the room as if I might have left something behind. But everything that really mattered was in my veins; Alison had taught me that that was the only way to travel.
    I turned to the burglar. "There is no antidote. But the toxin won't kill you. You'll just wish it would, for the next twelve hours. Goodbye."
    As I headed for the door, hairs rose suddenly on the back of my neck. It occurred to me that she might not take me at my word—and might fire a parting shot, believing she had nothing to lose.
    Turning the handle, without looking back, I said, "But if you come after me—next time, I'll kill you."
    That was a lie, but it seemed to do the trick. As I pulled the door shut behind me, I heard her drop the gun and start vomiting again.
    Halfway down the stairs, the