“Hey, Abigail, ready for an easy one?”
“Lionel, you can toss that teasing in a fusion reactor. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it’s less so now. Besides, I stopped believing in easy cases three months ago.”
“Strangely enough, I actually mean it this time. At least, as much as any Imperial-related cluster gets.”
“Oh…kay. I’m listening.”
“Remember the lady from last week? Dual citizenship, Scottish father and Mayflower-descendant mother? Asking the Edinburgh rep about opportunities in the healthcare supply market?”
“Thought she could unscrew the US health system with one weird Imperial trick, yeah, I remember. Not really her fault, she’d been set up by her boss and the trade representative.”
“Had some words the next day with the Foreign Office and the First Minister about people abusing the priority queue. The pointy-ears may respect seeking profits, but break even a trivial rule and that respect goes straight into a volcano.”
“You promised less need for triptans, Lionel. Get to the point.”
“Right, so she showed up again this morning, this time on her own initiative. The staff were about to turf her with an appointment five years out when the rep came out and recognized her. Guess they wanted to see what sort of bizarre barbarian would dare come back for more tongue-lashing.”
“And thus more work for me.”
"Except not. Because she made it quite clear she was asking for her own damn self this time – to sign up for immortagenic treatments at the earliest availability. She said, and I quote, “Listen, ye insolent pixie. All my ancestors would tell me nay take any handouts from a Fair Folk, but I swear ye this: I intend to live however many millennia it takes to meet your sneer with my own deeds to match.”
“Do I need to find her next of kin?”
“Nope. You need to call the IRS. Seems she’s now got the immortagen franchise contract for the Northeast Corridor.”
“Lionel…”
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