The gun was cold in Donovan’s mouth, and he decided he’d rather live unplugged than put up with this kind of treatment. He tongued the barrel to one cheek, wondering how much wetware it would take out when it went off and if he had remembered to run a physoptical backup this morning. He hadn’t.
Eaton checked his watch, and thumbed the safety back on. He eyed Donovan critically, withdrew the gun, and pointedly wiped the barrel off on Donovan’s jacket shoulder. The gun stayed out, as did Eaton’s grimace. Donovan stood, the circulation returning to his knees. He was getting too old for this.
“Was that really necessary?”
The gun went off. Both men jumped. Eaton checked the safety, moved it to the opposite position, making a note of it. Donovan started to bleed.
“You never used those fingers anyway.” Eaton indicated the round silicon slot on his own arm. “There’s better ways, now.” He reholstered the weapon.
“Go find our gear. Or we’ll hold you responsible for the stolen CPU cycles. And what they’re used for.”