11
“Exploding pizza,” Ricci said, ample cheeks bulging with delighted fascination on my terminal screen. “This is a new one.”
I swallowed another painkiller and washed it down with lukewarm coffee. The damage to my arm had been easily mended, two hours in the speed-healer and a thick slathering with derma-gel to take care of the scars. The ache of it lingered though, deep and fierce. “Glad my near-death experience made your day,” I said. “How about some evidence?”
“Got plenty. Not sure how much it’ll help.” He tapped a button on his own terminal, calling up a line graph. “Spectrograph analysis of what’s left of Fuentes. Mostly a breakdown of the chemical compounds that make up the human body, except for this group.” The number of lines reduced as Ricci highlighted various points on the
