Xenoform Read Online Free

keep any exasperation from his voice.
    ‘Fifteen,’ stated the barman, handing over the plastic bottle.
    Debian paid him in hard money and waited for him to return to his glass polishing, which he did with deliberate, defiant slowness. Jalan was rude but he was safe and he knew when not to listen. Debian had been coming here for years and the proprietor’s unfriendliness was actually one thing he liked about the place. Jalan Frazer asked no questions, just sold drinks and polished glasses.
    Finally, Mr. Scotch Drinker turned to Debian. His smooth-skinned and generic face betrayed no more information than his net signature. The plug sockets glinted amongst his short hair like shrapnel in his head. He rolled the Scotch around its glass meditatively.
    ‘You are Debian?’ he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.
    ‘Yes.’ Debian tried to fight the nervous urge to glance continually around himself.
    ‘I am Hex. Your new contact from the employer. You have been informed, of course. My predecessor has moved on.’
    ‘I was told that he was dead.’
    ‘As I say, he has moved on. Be assured, his death was not business-related.’
    ‘I have been assured. Otherwise I would not have agreed to meet you.’
    ‘Of course, and only right. I have the verification you expect.’ Hex held out one index finger. There was a black data-spot adhered to it.
    ‘If that thing contains some sort of virus, don’t get your hopes up,’ Debian confided in a low voice, searching the face of his contact for any deception, analysing micro-expressions on his features. He seemed genuine enough.
    ‘It’s clean. I know you’ll have multiple firewalls in that head of yours. A virus wouldn’t get in anyway. You think anyone who knew your reputation would even try?’ Hex answered equally quietly. Jalan had ducked into the back room.
    ‘You never know,’ admitted Debian. He pressed his own index finger to the data spot and the electromagnetic field reader in his digit scanned the codes on the spot. They all checked out. The contact was apparently genuine. Honestly, he hadn’t doubted it anyway. ‘All good,’ he said.
    Hex simply nodded, and the spot disappeared into a pocket of his voluminous coat. ‘You wanna go sit in a booth, out of the way a bit?’ he asked.
    ‘Sure, why not,’ answered Debian, brushing his long blonde hair behind one ear. His own DNI sockets were exposed on his head – triple-shielded highways to the brain.
    They stood – Hex towering over Debian like a puppeteer. At only five foot eight Debian was used to this. The tumbler of Scotch led them to a booth at the side of the room, seeming to pull Hex along by the hand. Debian followed, moving in a manner intended to draw as little attention as possible. He had perfected the art of walking under the radar, of being unseen in plain sight, avoiding plain sight altogether where possible.
    Hex slid onto a bench, which creaked with ancient leather. Debian sat opposite him, placing his water on the table, trying to relax.
    ‘It is good to finally meet you,’ said Hex. ‘I’m a keen follower of your work.’
    ‘My work,’ replied Debian pointedly, ‘doesn’t like to be followed. But thanks.’
    ‘I have a…commission for you.’
    ‘A job. Fine. Of course. The employer has always recompensed me well.’
    Hex leaned forward across the table. Debian could smell the alcohol on his breath but the man’s eyes were clear and piercing. He slid an old-fashioned non-networked datasheet across the wooden surface for Debian’s perusal.
    Debian read the writing on the screen without touching the device: Cyberlife Research and Development , was glowing there. He slid it back. Hex took it and cleared the screen.
    ‘You know them?’ asked Hex, his natural hazel eyes locked on Debian’s eyes of milky crystal.
    ‘Actually, no. I thought I knew most of the major players in the tech scene. Are they new?’
    ‘Well, not exactly. Apparently they’ve been beavering away in debt at