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He was tall, brownly bearded, archaically bespectacled, ostentatiously unkempt.
Something she’d gotten from Burton and the Corps, that you didn’t do things in the clothes you sat around in. You got yourself squared away, then your intent did too.
He’d done it with speed, intensity, and violence of action. That was the Corps’ fighting ethos, and maybe more so for Haptic Recon. As she understood it, it meant that your intel might not be great, your plan iffy, your hardware not the best, but you made up for it by just going for it, every time, that hard and that fast.
“Those fuckers,” Janice said, meaning the football players, “they get me doing hate Kegels. Always have. New crop of them every four years.”
He put a lot of energy into convincing people, and that was his job, or why he had that job, but really he was always convincing himself, maybe just that he was there, whatever he was trying to convince you.
“I’m here with sleeping beauty, you need me,” Clovis said. “True that you’ve got your own whole other body, up there?” “More or less. Somebody built it, but you couldn’t tell.” “Look like you?” “No,” Flynne said, “prettier and tittier.”
Coldiron is concerned about the townspeople not being priced out of chili dogs, but willing to condone dosing religious protesters, however repellant, with something that turns them into homicidal erotomaniacs?”
He supposed he understood Flynne’s reason for taking this course, but it wasn’t his. Though perhaps it sprang from that strata of archaic self-determination he found so exciting in her. Exciting and problematic. Why did the two seem so often to be inextricably linked, he wondered?
