including his anger.
12
From her executive office on the top floor of the Iosepa Biognost Tek building, Ilse Svatba could see beyond the seawall and the dervish lights of the Boardwalk to the far side of the Monterey Bay. A dagger of moonlight glinted on the water. It pierced the clear diamond window in front of her, slicing through the nanometer-thin film of graphene coating the surface.
Turn her back and the sterling dagger would still be there, aimed at a point directly between her shoulder blades.
Her neck prickled at the thought. It was a good reminder of the threats that lurked, waiting to strike if she let down her guard.
A virtual d-splay appeared toward the bottom of her field of view, announcing the arrival of Giles Atherton.
She mirrored a section of the window, reflecting the office around her. Framed in Art Nouveau curlicues dolloped with pewter leaves, she considered her attire.
How to present herself for the meeting? That was the question.
She mentally opened a selection menu and canceled her current philm, a d é coupage of knitted bamboo fiber, copper foil, glass beads, and peacock feathers.
Should she go soft and voluptuous, lipstick smeared? Elegant waif? Or something more ostentatious?
She selected an outfit from IBT's upcoming Gil Elgren line of pinups. Black lace brassiere, fishnet stockings, garters.
She pirouetted, critical, gauging the effect.
No. Atherton was a sesquicentenarian—practically posthuman. The Betty Paige look would have little or no effect on him. Besides, she didn't want to taunt him, merely tantalize. And intimidate, it was true. Even if they were business partners, there was no sense giving him the upper hand.
She tried Alphonse Mucha next, replacing the black lace and fishnet with a diaphanous lavender gown. Ankle-length, sleeveless, her hair a thick flowering cascade of honeysuckle pink that caressed her neck and bare shoulders.
Too faery, she decided. It put her in the wrong mood.
In the end, she settled on Art Deco, circa 1928. A shift-style dress, mustard yellow, with a straight bodice and collar. Waistline near the hip. Hem pleated, falling to just below the knees. A matching bell cloche hat and lustrous pearl necklace completed the ensemble.
A perfect combination of sophisticated but sensual professionalism. She rephilmed the office next, replacing the Scandinavian wood floor with black-and-white checkerboard tiles. She papered the walls with a Poiret print of repeated parrots, rendered in flamboyant green and pink. Seashells scalloped the ceiling. For the light fixtures and door, she selected a stylized papyrus motif, articulated in classic Metyl-Wood veneer. Lastly she downloaded a new voice, something dusky, less puerile than her own nasal alto.
"All right," she announced, testing the voice. It curled around her, as sensuous as a midnight clarinet. "I'm ready."
Atherton was dressed in a tweed jacket with brown suede patches on both elbows, a paisley bow tie, flannel Oxford baggies, and loafers. His collar-length hair — parted marginally on one side — was tan, silver-streaked, and slightly unkempt. A pair of round wire-frame spectacles rode low on his tapered nose.
The style was professorial, she thought, intended to put her at ease by projecting an air of polite if effete intelligentsia. Instead, it came off as self-conscious, or self-indulgent. He didn't ware the look well, and seemed uncomfortable.
She took a small measure of satisfaction that his attire was out-of-date. Expensive, hand-tailored, but unlike hers his electronic skin didn't support programmable fabric.
For the moment, she had something he didn't. IBT was the only philm studio that could provide the technology and services he needed. That gave her the advantage in any confrontation.
Ilse smiled warmly and extended her hand. "My dear." He bent to peck her hand. "A pleasur as always."
"Likewise. "
He straightened and stepped back. She withdrew her hand, conscious of the
12
From her executive office on the top floor of the Iosepa Biognost Tek building, Ilse Svatba could see beyond the seawall and the dervish lights of the Boardwalk to the far side of the Monterey Bay. A dagger of moonlight glinted on the water. It pierced the clear diamond window in front of her, slicing through the nanometer-thin film of graphene coating the surface.
Turn her back and the sterling dagger would still be there, aimed at a point directly between her shoulder blades.
Her neck prickled at the thought. It was a good reminder of the threats that lurked, waiting to strike if she let down her guard.
A virtual d-splay appeared toward the bottom of her field of view, announcing the arrival of Giles Atherton.
She mirrored a section of the window, reflecting the office around her. Framed in Art Nouveau curlicues dolloped with pewter leaves, she considered her attire.
How to present herself for the meeting? That was the question.
She mentally opened a selection menu and canceled her current philm, a d é coupage of knitted bamboo fiber, copper foil, glass beads, and peacock feathers.
Should she go soft and voluptuous, lipstick smeared? Elegant waif? Or something more ostentatious?
She selected an outfit from IBT's upcoming Gil Elgren line of pinups. Black lace brassiere, fishnet stockings, garters.
She pirouetted, critical, gauging the effect.
No. Atherton was a sesquicentenarian—practically posthuman. The Betty Paige look would have little or no effect on him. Besides, she didn't want to taunt him, merely tantalize. And intimidate, it was true. Even if they were business partners, there was no sense giving him the upper hand.
She tried Alphonse Mucha next, replacing the black lace and fishnet with a diaphanous lavender gown. Ankle-length, sleeveless, her hair a thick flowering cascade of honeysuckle pink that caressed her neck and bare shoulders.
Too faery, she decided. It put her in the wrong mood.
In the end, she settled on Art Deco, circa 1928. A shift-style dress, mustard yellow, with a straight bodice and collar. Waistline near the hip. Hem pleated, falling to just below the knees. A matching bell cloche hat and lustrous pearl necklace completed the ensemble.
A perfect combination of sophisticated but sensual professionalism. She rephilmed the office next, replacing the Scandinavian wood floor with black-and-white checkerboard tiles. She papered the walls with a Poiret print of repeated parrots, rendered in flamboyant green and pink. Seashells scalloped the ceiling. For the light fixtures and door, she selected a stylized papyrus motif, articulated in classic Metyl-Wood veneer. Lastly she downloaded a new voice, something dusky, less puerile than her own nasal alto.
"All right," she announced, testing the voice. It curled around her, as sensuous as a midnight clarinet. "I'm ready."
Atherton was dressed in a tweed jacket with brown suede patches on both elbows, a paisley bow tie, flannel Oxford baggies, and loafers. His collar-length hair — parted marginally on one side — was tan, silver-streaked, and slightly unkempt. A pair of round wire-frame spectacles rode low on his tapered nose.
The style was professorial, she thought, intended to put her at ease by projecting an air of polite if effete intelligentsia. Instead, it came off as self-conscious, or self-indulgent. He didn't ware the look well, and seemed uncomfortable.
She took a small measure of satisfaction that his attire was out-of-date. Expensive, hand-tailored, but unlike hers his electronic skin didn't support programmable fabric.
For the moment, she had something he didn't. IBT was the only philm studio that could provide the technology and services he needed. That gave her the advantage in any confrontation.
Ilse smiled warmly and extended her hand. "My dear." He bent to peck her hand. "A pleasur as always."
"Likewise. "
He straightened and stepped back. She withdrew her hand, conscious of the
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