Distraction - Bruce Sterling [83]
Moira stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. “You’re completely insane. You’re completely insane!”
Oscar turned to the cop. “I can vouch for her, Officer. Her name’s Moira Matarazzo, she’s my guest.”
“You can’t act like this!” Moira screeched. She shoved him suddenly, pushing at his shoulder. “He tried to kill you!”
“Well, he missed.”
Moira swung up her purse, two-handed, and walloped him. “Be scared, stupid! Be scared, like me! Act normal!”
“Don’t do that,” the cop commanded. “Stop hitting him.”
“Are you made out of ice? You can’t act like this! Nobody thinks that fast!” She whacked him with the purse again. Oscar ducked back, raising his arms to shield his face.
“Stop that,” said the cop, in a level no-nonsense tone. “Stop hitting him.”
“She’s hysterical,” Oscar gasped. He ducked another swing.
The cop pulled her spraygun and fired. There was a hiss of high-speed mist. Moira’s eyelids flicked upward like electric shutters. She collapsed to the floor.
“She was really in a state,” Oscar said, rubbing his elbow. “You have to allow her some leeway.”
“Mr. Valparaiso, I understand that sentiment,” Officer O’Reilly said. “But I’m on live helmetcam. She disobeyed two direct orders to stop battering you. That is not acceptable. City policy is very strict regarding domestic disputes. If we have to take action to break up a physical quarrel, the offending party is gonna spend the night in the cooler. You understand me, sir? That’s city policy. No ifs, ands, or buts. She’s under arrest.”
“She’d just been shot at. She was very upset.”
“I’m very aware of that fact, but you’ll have to take that up with Special Weapons and Tactics. I’m with the bicycle patrol.” She paused. “Don’t worry, SWAT is on their way right now. They’re very rapid-response when it comes to firearm incidents.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Oscar said. “Please don’t think I was being ungrateful. It was very brave of you to charge headlong into a shootout. That’s a very commendable action.”
Officer O’Reilly smiled briefly. “Oh, the drones had the perp down as soon as the shots were triangulated. He’s in custody already.”
“Excellent work.”
The officer gazed at him thoughtfully. “Are you really sure you’re all right?”
“Why do you say that?” He paused. “Oh. Yes, of course. Yes, I’m very upset by all this. It’s the fourth attempt on my life in the past three weeks. I need to make my situation clear to the local authorities—but I got into town just an hour ago. I lost track of time.”
Moira stirred on the floor and moaned faintly.
“Would you like a hand loading her into the paddy wagon?”
“That’s all right, Mr. Valparaiso. I think we can manage.”
The police downtown were very polite to him. Polite, but unyielding. Once Oscar had successfully repeated his story for the third time, he relaxed.
He had been in a little mental fugue state. Not for the first time, of course—they’d been happening to him since childhood. Nothing life-threatening, but it wasn’t the kind of response that formed the human standard.
Oscar sometimes liked to imagine that he was brilliant under pressure, but that was a pretense. He wasn’t brilliant. He was just extremely fast. He wasn’t a genius. He just burned more brightly, his internal chip-cycle ran a little faster. Now, with the fugue fading, he felt shaky—even with a solemn police promise of extra surveillance and bike patrols.
His assailant—a victim of senile paranoia—had almost managed to shoot him. But Oscar couldn’t seem to connect. The facts weren’t registering. He was numbed.
He went upstairs to his third-floor office. He unlocked his desk and retrieved his super-special crisis notebook. Also, a vintage Waterman pen. At times like this it always helped him to make a list. Not on a screen. With his own hands. He placed the journal down on his Eero Saarinen desktop, and began to write.
Priority A. Become Bambakias chief of staff.
B. Reform Collaboratory. Internal coup. Purge. Remove entire old guard. Cut budget drastically, reform finances. Note: