Zero History

62. WAKING
Milgrim woke with a leg over both of his, bent sharply at the knee, Fiona’s inner thigh
and calf across the front of both his thighs. She’d turned on her side, facing him, and was
no longer snoring, though he could feel, he discovered, her breath on his shoulder. She
was still asleep.
How long, he wondered, if he remained perfectly still, might she remain in this
extraordinary position? He only knew that he was prepared to find out.
A spidery, simultaneously sinuous and scratchy guitar chord filled the high-ceilinged
twilight of Bigend’s Vegas cube, afloat on rainlike finger-drums. Milgrim winced. It died
away. Came again.
Fiona moaned, threw her arm across his chest, snuggled closer. The chord returned,
like surf, relentless. “Bugger,” said Fiona, but didn’t move until the scratching, writhing
chord returned again. She rolled away from Milgrim, reaching for something. “Hullo?”
Milgrim imagined that the foam was a raft. Made the walls recede, horizon-deep. But it
was a raft on which Fiona was taking calls.
“Wilson? Okay. Yes? Understood. Put him on.” She sat cross-legged now, at the very
edge of the slab. “Hullo. Yes.” Silence. “I’d need to dress for it, the chartreuse vest,
reflective stripes.” Silence. “Kawasaki. GT550. Bit tatty for the job, but if the box is new,
should do. Benny can bolt anything on. Have the manufacturer’s URL? I could measure it
for you, otherwise. I’ve already put it together. Haven’t tested it.” A longer silence.
“Organ transplants, plasma? Autopsy bits?” Silence. “Send over enough of that precut
foam from a camera shop, the throw-away-the-bits kind. I doubt vibration would do it
much good at all, but Benny and I can sort that. Yes. I will. Thank you. Could you put
Hubertus back on, please? Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “we do seem
very busy, suddenly. Benny can bodge your box on, but I’ll need new dampers. This
drone won’t travel as nicely, I don’t think. Different sort of moving parts. Yes. He did. He
was very clear. Bye, then.”
“Hubertus?”
“And someone called Wilson. Something’s up.”
“What?”
“Wilson wants my bike outfitted like a medical courier, professional-looking box over
the pillion, extra reflectors, safety gear. Our new drone goes in there.”
“Who’s Wilson?”
“No idea. Hubertus says do what he says, to the letter. When Hubertus delegates, he
delegates.” He felt her shrug. “Good kip, though.” She yawned, stretched. “You?”
“Yes,” said Milgrim, keeping it at that.
She stood, went to where she’d left her armored pants. He heard her pull them on. The