Free Abyss Deep by Ian Douglas Page A

one-­kilometer asteroid fall out of the sky, killing a few hundred million ­people or more?
    And with their plan for extortion blocked, what would they do next?
    An inner ping alerted me to an incoming call request. I glanced at it, saw that it was another GNN e-­comm request, and dismissed it. I’d become a pretty popular guy, it seemed. “A highly newsworthy commodity,” like Joy had said. Reporters, both on Earth and embedded at HQ, wanted to talk to me.
    Well, I didn’t want to talk to them . I felt used and ambushed, and I wouldn’t have opened the channel even if Gunny Hancock hadn’t told me he would skin me alive and hang me out an airlock to dry if I did.
    â€œLet’s change the subject,” I told Joy. “I don’t really want to discuss work when the most gorgeous U.S. Marine in the Galaxy is sitting here right across from me.”
    â€œFlatterer.”
    â€œI like the utilities.”
    She dimpled. “Thank you. I put so much work into it.”
    In fact, she was wearing ordinary ship utilities, a black skinsuit that clung to her like paint. She’d stroked the top away, though, to give her the currently fashionable Minoan Princess look, proudly bare breasted. She’d programmed the remaining nanofabric to give it an illusion of depth, scattered through and through with gleaming stars.
    She was radiantly beautiful.
    â€œElliot, someone is pinging our ID.”
    The voice wasn’t Joy’s. It was my AI secretary, a smart bit of AI software that normally resided silently within my in-­head hardware without making its presence known. That it was speaking now, interrupting my conversation with Joy, meant that it had detected a close-­in attempt to physically locate me by homing in on my personal electronics. Normally that stuff is pretty heavily firewalled, with name and rank only out there for public access, but I’d opened it wider in order to pay for the drinks and the meal.
    Or maybe the name and rank had been enough. Damn it!
    â€œWhere is he?” I asked my secretary.
    â€œHighlighting. To your left.”
    I looked, and saw a conservatively dressed man coming through the restaurant entrance, about forty meters away, painted with a green nimbus by my in-­head. He stopped, looked around . . . and our eyes met. He smiled and started walking toward us. His pace was slow, shuffling, and a bit awkward; I pegged him as a groundpounder, someone who hadn’t been in space much and wasn’t used to walking in low-­G.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Joy asked. She must have seen the blank look on my face while I talked with my secretary.
    â€œWe’ve got company,” I told her. “Wait here.”
    I got up and walked over to meet the guy. I pinged his ID as I approached, and got a readout: Christpher Ivarson, Global Net News. By the time I reached him, three-­quarters of the way up the curve of the sphere, I was at a slow simmer but well on my way to coming to a boil.
    â€œPetty Officer Carlyle—­”
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing, following me around?” I demanded. “Can’t a guy have any privacy?”
    â€œYou’ve been blocking our newsbots, sir, and we really would like to have you answer a few questions.”
    â€œMaybe there’s a reason I’ve been blocking you,” I told him. “Such as . . . I don’t want to answer your questions.”
    â€œThis will only take a moment, really.”
    â€œNo. This ends now. I’m having dinner with a friend and I will not have it spoiled by the likes of you!”
    â€œNow, don’t be like that, Elliot! If the Central Asian Caliphate was behind the hijacking of that asteroid, the public has a right to know! And after all, the Hero of Bloodworld will have a unique perspective on the attack! You might not know it, but Elliot Carlyle is big news right now! First Bloodworld and the Qesh, and