Mind Over Ship

The Short Commute

It was a short walk from Mary’s suite on the north side of the Starke Manse to the library on the south. Along the way she greeted doris maids and russ security men. The main parlor was closed off — fleets of household arbeitors and carpet scuppers were giving it a thorough spring scrubbing — and she detoured through one of the smaller banquet rooms. A solitary jerome sat at the head of the long, empty table going over house accounts on a dataframe.

“Myr Skarland,” he said, nodding to her as she went by.

“Myr Walker,” she replied with mock formality.

When she reached the library, Mary was surprised to find no one there. “Hello?” she said to the empty room.

Lyra, Ellen Starke’s newly made mentar, appeared at once in her latest persona, that of a plain young woman in a featureless blue smock with a slate tucked under one arm. “Good morning, Mary,” she said, her voice burbling with cheerfulness. “I trust you slept well.”

Mary knew that the mentar knew that she had indeed slept well, since its job was to monitor everything and everyone on the Manse premises, but she said, “Yes, I did, Lyra. Thank you for asking.” Then she said no more and only looked around at the empty chairs.

“Oh!” the young mentar said at last. “I should have informed you of the room change. Nurse Eisner moved the care plan meeting to the atrium because of the lovely weather. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Lyra. You’re learning very quickly, but, yes, next time inform me of schedule changes.”

Mary took a shortcut through Ellen’s bedroom to reach the atrium. Both the bed and the hernandez tank next to it were unoccupied. A jenny nurse was wadding up purple-stained towels from the floor and tossing them into the hopper of an arbeitor. She was a new staffer Mary hadn’t met. When she noticed Mary, she said, “We’re bathing her.”

“Actually, I’m just passing through. Don’t mind me.”

But as Mary went by, the jenny’s jaw dropped, and though Mary wore no name badge, the tall woman recognized her all the same. “Mary Skarland?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Mary said and paused to offer her hand. “Good to meet you” — she glanced at the nurse’s name badge — “June.”

The nurse clasped Mary’s hand, but instead of shaking it, she pulled the smaller woman into a full embrace, which was what jennys often did when they met Mary for the first time. Sometimes they cried a little. To Mary it was odd: not every member of the jenny germline reminded her of Hattie Beckeridge, but some of them did, and then she cried too. Not this time, though, and in a little while she freed herself and said, “Welcome to Starke Manse, June. We’re so glad you could join us.”

THE ATRIUM COURTYARD roof had been scrolled back, and the morning sun painted the walls with creamy light. The air was fresh and a little chilly. Three night jennys sat on wooden folding chairs alongside Mary’s two evangeline sisters, Georgine and Cyndee. Mentar Lyra stood in front of them posing in what appeared to be a period costume of some sort.

Cyndee had sleep lines under her eyes, but she smiled at Mary and patted the empty chair next to her. “What’s this?” Mary said. “A fashion show?”

“We told her she had to lose the blue smock,” Cyndee explained, “and this is what she’s come up with so far. What do you think?”

“Yes, Mary,” Lyra echoed, “what do you think?”

In place of the smock, the mentar’s persona wore a lavender blouse and short black skirt with a light jacket in dusky plum brocade. On its feet were simple black suede open-toed slip-ons.

“Hmmm,” Mary said, looking her up and down. “Understated, elegant, professional. Granted, it’s like two hundred years old, but I like it, Lyra, and I give it my unqualified stamp of approval.”

The mentar beamed. “Thank you, Mary.”

“Wait. Hold on,” Mary said. “You’re not finished, are you? Where’s the hat to go with that outfit?”

“Yes,” chorused the jennys. “Show us the hat.”

The young mentar said, “I have been studying the history of hat design, and I believe I have fused several popular styles into an original one.”

“And?”

But the mentar hesitated and had to be coaxed into showing its hat to them. When the hat appeared on Lyra’s head, the jennys gasped. The mentar’s design was a complicated wad of velvet ribbon liberally sprinkled with tiny silver pine cones, rosebuds, and acorns. The brim turned up in the front like the prow of a ship, and from its bowsprit sprang a golden sprig that dangled three freshwater pearls. From the rear of the hat protruded a fantail of pleated felt, like the rear end of a turkey.

“Hmmm,” Mary said. “Hmmm.”

“Hats are the hardest,” Lyra complained.

“Oh, I know it,” Mary agreed. “What do you think about your hat?”

Lyra glanced at the jennys. “I like it, but I wouldn’t want to appear ridiculous when I wore it.”

“I don’t blame you. No one wants to appear ridiculous. Maybe our friends can make some suggestions how to fix it?”

“All right,” Lyra said.

At once the jennys and Georgine and Cyndee seized Lyra’s design and cloned it multiple times in the air, editing it with ideas of their own. They tried their creations on Lyra and on each other and picked apart the results. The mentar delighted in their attention.

Mary said, “Remember, Lyra, in the end it’s up to you to decide what you’ll wear. That’s a cardinal rule of personhood. You may end up liking your original design best of all, and if you do, you should stick with it. How you feel about yourself is much more important than the opinions of others, and with enough chutzpah, you can pull off any hat you like.”

Just then, a door opened and Dr. Lamprey came in, followed by June and another jenny from day shift, as well as the head nurse, Eisner. The dozens of hats vanished.

“Oh, good,” the doctor said, “you’re all here.” There were no more seats, and one of the jennys offered him hers, but the doctor said, “Sit, sit. I’ve got legs too.” He paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “Now I know some of you are going off shift, so I’ll keep this brief. The reason I asked you here —” He stopped and looked around the atrium. “I don’t see Ellen’s guardian.”

“I notified her,” Lyra said. The young mentar continued to wear its period work ensemble, but without the hat.

“Maybe she forgot,” the evangeline Cyndee quipped, and the jennys snickered.

Cabinet appeared in front of the doctor, startling him. It wore the persona of an elderly woman. “Yes?” it said.

“We’re having a care plan meeting, as I told you not ten minutes ago,” said Dr. Lamprey, “and I would appreciate your attention.”

“Certainly,” said the old mentar, who promptly disappeared.

Dr. Lamprey frowned but continued. “Let me just say that the quality of Ellen’s care continues to be excellent, and you are all to be commended. Likewise, Ellen’s physical progress remains strong. Her physical growth continues to catch up on her early deficits, and I have no remarks to add along those lines. What I want to concentrate on” — and here his voice deepened — “is her psychological recovery.”

The mood in the room changed. The jennys all looked at their hands. “Yes, I see you’re aware of what I’m talking about,” he continued. “With injuries so grievous, it’s a minor miracle she survived at all, and the experience has taken its toll. Ellen lost a significant mass of brain tissue, especially in her motor regions and cerebellum. To compensate, we’ve ramped up her brain’s own neuron-generating process, and new tissue is replacing the lost. It helps that her entire body has been replaced, which has provoked the whole region to rewire itself.

“What I am concerned about is the damage done to her prefrontal cortex. While not extensive, it’s not as easily repaired as the motor regions without a permanent effect on her psyche. Not to be too graphic about it, but her head was literally plucked from her body by the force of the impact. Her safety helmet saved her brain, but it could not mitigate the sheer brutality of the experience. It leaves indelible marks.

“That being said, the human mind is a resilient organ, and early signs lead me to believe that Ellen’s personality will reemerge essentially the same as before the accident. However, there is always the danger of unexpected complexes developing, and that’s what I think we’re seeing now. I’m referring specifically to her recent delusion that her mother is still alive.”

It was a problem that Mary had, in fact, been the first to report. Oblique references to her mother’s many contingency plans led to assertions of her survival. It had been going on for several weeks and was becoming more pronounced.

“We cannot ignore this,” the doctor continued, “especially now when new networks are being established. Keep in mind that the neural circuits used most frequently become the strongest. You might say they increase their own bandwidth with usage. If we don’t deal with this delusion now, it may become literally engraved in her prefrontal cortex and link up to other neural regions to eventually hijack her entire personality. It’s better for us to be proactive.”

The doctor paused a moment for the gravity of his words to sink in. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Last night, I explained the situation to Ellen, and with her permission, I infused the regenerative medium in her hernandez tank with a drug called Protatter. When activated, this drug dampens neural firing. When we dampen a circuit often enough the brain thinks the circuit is unnecessary and prunes it back. So, this drug, in effect, can erase memories. We have to be careful which memories we erase, and we’ll proceed in a very conservative manner. Ordinarily, I would rely on a patient’s guardian mentar to control the dampening, but” — the doctor looked around the room and shook his head. “Ellen’s guardian seems to be having cognitive problems of its own, and her new mentar” — he nodded at Lyra — “may be a little young for such responsibility. Therefore, you, Ellen’s nurses and companions, will have to do the job.

“In order to tell Protatter which circuits to dampen, we need to listen very closely to everything Ellen says, and every time she expresses her delusion we tag it. For this I’ve supplied Nurse Eisner with clicker devices.”

The jenny held up a small plastic disk for the others to see, and the doctor continued. “Press the button for as long as she talks about the idea that her mother is still alive, then let it go. Don’t press it if she mentions her mother in any other context. We don’t want to erase all memory of her mother. Only press it when she expresses a belief that her mother is alive on this Earth. Don’t be concerned if she says she’s in heaven or otherwise spiritually alive. And don’t worry about making a few mistakes along the way because it’s the cumulative total of hits that will have the effect and not any individual error.”

Office Hours

“She’s waiting for you,” June, the new jenny, told Mary.

“I’ll spell you when you’re tired,” the evangeline Georgine said.

“Don’t forget your clicker,” Nurse Eisner said.

Mary waved them all away and gently shut the heavy Map Room doors behind her. Ellen lay in a parallelogram of sunlight on the carpet beneath the window. Mary crossed the room soundlessly and loomed over the drowsing baby/woman. Ellen’s body was that of a healthy sixteen-month-old toddler. She was dressed in a plain, pea-green eversuit that left her fat arms and legs bare. She wore pea-green booties. Surrounding her neck was the large, horseshoe-shaped brace that helped support her adult head. Or, rather, that helped the head support its baby body.

It was Ellen’s original head, the one she had been born with. A safety helmet had swallowed it moments before a devastating space yacht crash had obliterated the rest of her. It was a head that was a bit rattled still. It was covered with all-new baby skin, smooth and flawless. New button nose, comically small ears.

Mary moved into her light. “Mary?” the adult head said, blinking and yawning.

“Yes, good morning, Ellen. It’s me.”

The baby raised her arms, and Mary picked her up, mindful to support the ungainly head. She carried her to the huge chairdog that was crouching in the corner, and the window followed them along the wall.

“No, window,” Mary scolded. “Go back where you were.” The window fled back across the wall, and Mary lowered herself and Ellen into the chair-dog. The chairdog stretched and scooched to balance their weight until they were perfectly comfortable, but then Mary remembered the clicker, and she had to lift Ellen to search her pockets for it. When they were resettled, Mary said, “Sleep well?”

“No, Mary, I did not.” Ellen’s voice lacked the force of adult lungs. “I kept waking up feeling I was drowning in that fecking tank! I want to sleep in a real bed, but they won’t listen to me. Can’t you make them listen to me?”

“I’ll mention it,” Mary said. “But you and I both know what they’ll say: the tank is best for gaining weight and growing bigger.”

“But they’re wrong! I know they are. They listen to you, Mary. Promise me you’ll speak to them.”

“I promise. Now, what’s on the agenda? You told Cyndee you wanted to work today, so what needs to be done?”

“Oh, Mary, there’s so much to be done, more than can fit into one lifetime, and it just keeps piling up! I don’t know how I’ll ever get out from under it all.”

Mary gave the baby a little squeeze. “Don’t worry so much. Just slow down and take it one thing at a time. What should we tackle first? Lyra, what do you have to get us started? Make it something easy.”

The mentar appeared in the room in her new clothes and pulled the slate from under her arm. “Libby from the Department of Justice is standing by with a briefing on their investigation into your mother’s death.”

Lyra! Mary said silently. Weren’t we in the same care plan meeting a few minutes ago?

The young mentar quickly added, “But Clarity wants to speak to you first.”

“Well, I don’t want to speak to her. Send Libby in.”

Mary shot Lyra a look of disapproval and added, “Make it voice only, please.”

The official UDJD seal appeared in the center of the Map Room and faded away. The disembodied voice of the government mentar said, “Good morning, myren. Since our last update we have uncovered an important new lead. Forensics has identified a data burst transmission to the Songbird in the moments before its avionics malfunction. While we have poor odds of ever recovering the contents of this burst, the fact of its existence is one more piece of evidence that the avionics subems may have been sabotaged. In other words, evidence that the ship’s failure was not accidental.”

Ellen was silent for a long moment, and Mary readied the clicker. Ellen said, “I don’t understand. Kindly boil it down for me, Libby: Have you found my mother?”

The government mentar paused, and Mary wasn’t sure if the statement qualified as delusional. “I’m sorry,” Libby said, “found your mother? The whereabouts of your mother’s remains were never in doubt. The news I am imparting speaks to the question of whether your mother’s death was a homicide or an accident.”

Ellen corrected the mentar. “Attempted homicide, don’t you mean? How can you have a homicide if you don’t have a body?” There it was, the delusion, but when Mary tried to press the clicker, she found that she couldn’t do it. Dr. Lamprey’s explanation had sounded good, but Mary couldn’t get over the image of reaching into Ellen’s brain and pinching off a neuron.

“Her body was destroyed in the crash,” Libby replied. “The coroner has positively identified bodily residues collected at the crash site as belonging to Eleanor K. Starke. Her death is not in doubt. Do you have evidence to the contrary?”

The baby squirmed in Mary’s lap and kicked her legs. “Do you have any evidence besides ‘residues’ that she’s dead? She’s alive, I tell you! You should concentrate your efforts on finding her instead of making excuses!”

This time it was unequivocal, and Mary steeled herself and gave the clicker a good solid click. Meanwhile, she began rocking the baby in her arms. “Libby,” she said, “please give your report to Lyra and excuse us. Lyra, cut the connection.” The government seal reappeared briefly and faded away, and in a moment the chairdog aped Mary’s motion and began to rock both her and Ellen.

When Ellen settled down, she said, “I’m sorry, Mary. It’s just that I get so angry sometimes.”

“Perfectly understandable. No need for apologies.”

“No one believes me,” the baby went on, “but I know I’m right.”

Mary hesitated, then gave the clicker a quick squeeze. She looked imploringly at Lyra, who said, “Ellen, Clarity’s been trying to reach you for a week now. Shall I connect her?”

“No!” Ellen said. “I don’t want to see her!”

“Are you sure? She says it’s important.”

“That’s what she always says.”

Mary said, “Let’s move on. What else do you have, Lyra?” but Ellen changed her mind.

“Let Clarity in. I do have something to tell her.”

Clarity appeared on the opposite end of the room, took a moment to orient herself, and zoomed over to hover over the chairdog. Her holospace was roughly cropped and revealed scraps of her office around her. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she actually looked at her business partner, she laughed instead. “Honestly, Ellie,” she said, “you should see yourself. We should do a character like you. Maybe use Alison’s head.”

The remark took Ellen off guard. “What?”

“That big neck brace of yours is like an adapter plug. We could use it to screw different heads into your body. We could mix and match our characters.”

“Very funny,” Ellen said.

“I think so. I think it’s a riot. What do you think, Mary? We could call it the Amazing Modular People or something like that. Use it to recycle some of our less popular characters.”

Ellen waved her small arms to cut her off. “Will you quit that already? I have something important to tell you. And please sit down. You’re giving me a headache having to crane my neck like this.”

“Yes, of course. Just a sec.” Clarity vanished for a moment, and Mary nudged the chairdog to quick rocking. When Clarity reappeared, she was seated in an office chair.

“Thank you,” Ellen said. “That’s better. Listen, Clarity, my friend, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and —”

“Uh-oh,” Clarity said with a wink at Mary, “when she starts thinking, look out.”

“And I want to leave Burning Daylight.”

Clarity opened her mouth, then shut it.

“I’m serious,” Ellen went on. “I’ve lost all interest in producing holonovelas and sims. All of that seems so trivial to me now. Also, I know I haven’t been pulling my weight for some time, and it’s not fair to you.”

Clarity frowned while she considered a response. Finally, she said, “You’re not thinking straight, Ellie. You’re still mixed up from your accident.”

Ellen’s reaction was explosive. “It was no accident!” she shouted. “Will everyone please get it through their skulls that it wasn’t an accident! Even the fecking Justice Department knows it was a deliberate attack!”

“Sorry,” Clarity said. “I meant to say your attack.”

“I’m serious, Clair, I want out! The sooner the better!”

Clarity looked stricken. “But why? You love the business.”

“Not anymore. Besides, I have no time for it. All my time is taken up doing my mother’s work.” Mary heard the word “mother” and readied the clicker. “At least until she returns.” Click.

“Say what?”

“My mother’s hiding out somewhere.” Click. “She’ll come back when it’s safe.” Click.

Mary decided that they’d had enough and said, “Clarity, maybe you can continue this discussion tomorrow. We’re late for Ellen’s nutrition break.”

“All right,” Clarity said uncertainly. “We’ll table the matter for now. We’ll talk about it when you’re better.”

“That won’t make any difference,” Ellen said, but Clarity waved good-bye and vanished. The doors opened at once, and June led a cart into the room, and in its wake came the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon.

“Snack time!” June sang in a perfect expression of jenny enthusiasm. She spread her fingers at the window to enlarge it, then opened the cart’s high chair and reached for the baby.

But Ellen resisted. “I’m not hungry,” she said and crossed her arms.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” June chortled. “No one can resist apple strudel fresh from the oven!”

“Just watch me.”

Mary leaned over to whisper in Ellen’s undersized ear. “How can I ask them to let you out of the tank at night when you refuse even to eat?”

The baby took a moment to ponder this, then sighed and uncrossed her arms. “I can resist the strudel, nurse. It’s Mary I can’t resist.” She raised her arms for June to pick her up. “I’ll eat, but I’ll feed myself. Is that clear?”

The young nurse laughed. “Yes, myr! You’re the boss!”

Applied People — Warm Puppy Report

Zoranna Alblaitor spent a restless night in her Telegraph Hill home. When she awoke at one end of her sprawling Lazy-Acres bed, her mentar, Nicholas, was sitting next to her dressed nattily in a morning suit. “Go away,” she sniffed. She turned her back to him and pulled the covers over her head.

“We have a big day ahead, Zoe, beginning in about half an hour.”

“Use a proxy,” said her muffled voice.

“I would if we had any fresh ones.”

“Cast me.”

“I could, but then I’d have a grumpy, half-asleep proxy.” His argument had no effect on her. Not even the arrival of coffee and toasted bagels moved her. “I know what you need,” he said, “a Warm Puppy Report! Uncle Homer, where are you?” At once a long-haired blond chow chow puppy appeared in the middle of the vast bed dragging a ratty towel behind it. More fur than dog, the large puppy noticed them and, dropping the towel, galloped over on oversized paws. It leaped upon Zoranna and tried to root under her blanket. But she wore no vurt gear and could not feel it. The puppy gamboled back to its towel and seized and shook it with mock fury as though to break its neck.

“It looks healthy enough,” Zoranna said, peeking out from under the covers.

“Yes,” the mentar agreed. “It’s modeling the 75.2 million of our iterants who are awake and active at this time. Overall, they’re feeling fat and happy and well employed. Even frisky.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

The puppy discovered the young man still sleeping on the far end of the Lazy-Acres and dashed over to check him out.

“So, how was last night’s conquest?” Nicholas asked, changing the subject.

“Tireless,” Zoranna said. “As if you didn’t know.”

“And how would I know?”

“Get off it, Nick. I felt your presence. You were riding me last night. Don’t deny it. In fact, I think you enjoyed him more than I did.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Not yet, but I’ll let you know.”

The puppy came bounding back to them, but halfway across the bed it yelped and stopped. It sat and began to lick one of its hind legs. “There,” Nicholas said, “that’s what I wanted to show you.”

“What is it, baby?” Zoranna said, enticing the puppy closer. Uncle Homer returned to them, wagging its whole rear end, and tried to wash Zoranna’s face with its tongue. “Make it vurt,” she told Nicholas, and a moment later she could feel the dog’s slobbery tongue and manic energy. She caught it in her arms to make it still and rubbed it behind its ears. The puppy felt so soft and warm — so real, as though Zoranna were wearing full vurt gear. If her mentar could ride her world, she could ride his.

“I think the Londenstane case is the problem,” Nicholas said. “The trial concludes next week, our employees fear the verdict, and their stress is being translated as muscle cramps.”

“Poor baby,” Zoranna cooed. “Mommy is worried too.”

The dog melted away in her arms, and Nicholas said, “Now that you’re awake —”

“Give him back.”

“Later. Andrea Tiekel will be here in ten minutes.”

“Garden Earth business?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then what?”

“She wouldn’t say, except that it’s important.”

Zoranna dragged herself out of bed. In the bathroom, the large, softstone spa was filling with water. Zoranna considered the shelf of colored bottles and jars over the cabinet and chose Deep Forest from Borealis Botanicals. Borealis Botanicals was one of Saul Jaspersen’s companies. She despised the man but loved his line of all-natural toiletries. She spilled a handful of crystals into the surging water, releasing a musty, sweet cloud of steam. Slowly, she lowered herself into the fragrant brew. When she had made herself comfortable, she closed her eyes and said, “Ready.”

Her mentar opened a familiar lounge holoscape where she liked to conduct meetings. She glanced down and saw that she was wearing a dark business suit. She was seated in a blue-black leather armchair, and Nicholas occupied the one next to her.

ACROSS THE BAY in Oakland, Andrea Tiekel floated in a hernandez tank in a windowless basement room of her hillside house. She had not left the tall glass cylinder of bubbly green broth in weeks, and though she was constantly bathed in its wholesome chemicals, she continued to waste away. Her wispy hair drifted like seaweed, and her teeth were loose in her jaw.

Are you still up for this? her mentar asked.

Andrea belched a stream of curdled vomit, which was quickly absorbed by the fluid. I’ll manage, she said. The time is right.

Yes, she’s vulnerable now. We’ll proceed, and we’ll try to make it brief. We’ll provide you a probability sidebob sim of her for comparison. We’ve never had the opportunity to model Zoranna’s personality in one of our preffing suites, but we have high confidence in the accuracy of this sidebob construct. Nicholas says they’re ready. Here we go.

A moment later, Andrea Tiekel was sitting in a parlorlike space. Her persona was a healthy version of herself, fit and full and flush with color. Opposite her, Zoranna Alblaitor sat at ease next to her mentar, Nicholas, who wore his usual rakish persona. Between Zoranna and Nicholas, and invisible to them, stood Zoranna’s sidebob, wringing its hands anxiously, belying Zoranna’s apparent calm. Yes, this was the right time to strike.

Nicholas spoke first. “Welcome, Andrea. Nice to see you outside the boardroom. Is E-P here too?”

“Yes, we are,” said the mentar’s disembodied voice.

“Wouldn’t you care to join us in the visible world?” Nicholas gestured to the empty armchair next to Andrea’s.

“Actually,” E-P replied, “we don’t use a visible persona.”

“Is that so?” Zoranna said. “What about that quicksilver Everyperson I see everywhere?”

“That’s our E-Pluribus corporate logo,” E-P said. “That’s not us. But if you insist, we sometimes use this marker.” An icosahedron, like a ruby pineapple, appeared floating over the empty chair.

“Splendid. Thank you,” Zoranna said and turned to Andrea. “Now, what’s the purpose of this ‘urgent’ meeting?” Though she seemed disinterested, her sidebob leaned forward to catch Andrea’s reply.

“It’s actually pretty huge,” Andrea said. “When my dear aunt Andie died, she left me E-Pluribus and an impressive investment portfolio. I’m currently rebalancing this portfolio to better suit my own interests. As part of this process, I would like to purchase Applied People.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to buy you out.” Andrea sat back to watch Zoranna’s reaction.

Both Zoranna and her sidebob seemed surprised. The sidebob said, What’s this all about? Is she serious? Do I want to sell? Does she know something I don’t? At the same time, the real Zoranna’s eyes darted this way and that as Nicholas, no doubt, poured counsel into her ear. After a few beats, Zoranna regained her composure and said, “How fascinating! Tell me, Andrea, shouldn’t the owner of the largest preference polling company in the world know that I have no intention whatsoever of selling Applied People?”

Zoranna’s sidebob, meanwhile, had changed. It was now lying on a massage table, and a second Nicholas was feverishly kneading its neck and shoulders. Andrea smiled at the image. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I know your feelings about your company, but with the help of E-Pluribus, I am able to play my cards several shuffles ahead.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that I know probabilities which tell me that things will go very poorly for Applied People in the next few months. Within a year, Applied People will be worth next to nothing and be teetering on financial collapse. I say this in all sympathy. I’m not gloating or trying to take advantage of an unfortunate situation. In fact, rather than waiting until the bottom drops out, I’m here now to make what I consider to be a generous offer.”

Nicholas interjected, “Just how generous?”

“Eighty-two UDC per share.”

That was generous. Better than twice full value.

Zoranna said, “If you really mean to be generous, then you’d fill me in on the nature of this unfortunate situation that E-Pluribus foresees. Then Nick and I might have the opportunity to do something about it and save my company.”

Meanwhile, her sidebob was saying, Is it the Londenstane trial? Does she know the outcome? Oh, my God, the court is using an E-Pluribus jury! Did she rig it? Are we doomed? The sidebob was no longer on the massage table but in bed clinging to Nicholas like to a lover.

Andrea lingered over this image, then turned to Zoranna and said, “As you wish, I will tell you. There’s a near certainty that Fred Londenstane will be found — innocent.”

With a brave face, Zoranna said, “But that’s good news!” Her sidebob, however, cried, We’re ruined!

“Actually,” Andrea went on, “it’s not good news, at least not for your business. It would be far better if he received a life sentence and was locked away forever. Out of sight, out of mind. But instead he’ll be constantly in the public eye, a permanent reminder of his clone fatigue and a gadfly upon your whole organization.”

There’s no such thing as clone fatigue! raged the sidebob. It’s a myth, an urban legend. It’s not real, and we have the science to prove it. Calmly, Zoranna said, “That’s a cynical statement, Andrea, considering we’re talking about a living human being here, but I see your point. Tell me, how can you be so sure of the verdict? I mean, I thought that as soon as E-Pluribus releases jury sims to the court you have no further contact with them.”

“That’s true, we don’t. But don’t forget, we still have the original sims in our database. If we expose them to the same testimony as presented in court, we can determine how they’re likely to respond to it. In any case, I’ve made my offer. I don’t expect an immediate reply. I’ll leave it on the table for now, but the per-share amount will drop appreciably with time. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” She rose to leave.

Zoranna also rose. “Thank you for dropping by,” she said, but her sidebob was curled up in a trembling ball of nerves.

THAT QUITE WORE me out, Andrea said, once again in her warm, dark, syrupy tank.

Yes, we see that, E-P replied. You’ll have a rest break before our next meeting, but tell us, any insights to share?

Were you able to move any furniture into Nicholas’s realm?

No, his security was too alert. Why do you ask?

There’s something odd about their relationship. Not your usual human/mentar sponsorship.

We’ll look into it. Anything else?

Andrea reached out and touched the glassine side of her tank, caressing its smooth surface with bony fingers. Yes, one more impression. She’s a sensuous person. Tell me, what brand of body oil or skin cream does she prefer?

Borealis Botanicals. After a moment, E-P said, Yes, a fine vehicle. We’ll look into that as well. Now rest, dear.

One more thing. I feel my time is near.

The mentar paused a moment, and then it said, We’ll place the order.

Thank you.

Replacement Order

The order rumbled throughout the underground facility, rousting subunits by the score from the chilly slumber of standby status. Subems diagnosed both themselves and their component machines. Motors whirred, pressures rose, and instruments self-aligned to nano-tolerances. Several million jiffies later, the controlling midem declared the laboratory fully operational.

At once, all three stitching chambers prepped themselves with skeletal scaffolding blanks. Their print heads chittered to life. First they laid down the bones, building them from organic feedstock, 4096 molecules per stitch, a thousand stitches per second. Then they dressed the finished skeletons with organs, printing them in place. They knit muscle fibers, entrails, circulatory lines, nerves. They constructed hearts already containing the blood they would soon pump.

Seventy hours later, the stitchers went off-line, the chamber doors opened, and the print run was removed, still cold, to the bonding bay. The bay was a small space where the raw bodies could continue their internal assembly undisturbed for another forty-eight hours. Then medbeitors wheeled the bodies into the “delivery” room where they were jolted to life.

Only two of the Andreas passed inspection. The third exhibited a faulty nervous system and was handed off for sanitary disposal. The lab midem sent a fulfillment notice up the chain.

Total Body Makeover

Oliver TUG browsed the Thievery Gallery of the Persuasion Channel for their new interviewee. The rows of postage-stamp mug shots were no help: one brutalized face looked much like another, and there were so many of them. Oliver searched manually by dates and key words and after a few passes found the kid. The banner over his mug read, “WRECKER,” and the Ransom/Reward link below read, “He stole from us, and we want it back.” The thief, himself, looked to be about twelve years old, but he was a retroboy. He was a member of a gang that had caused a TUG moving and storage van to crash and then stole its contents before the traffic police arrived. At least, the TUGs assumed this retroboy was a wrecker. They had scant evidence, the boy hadn’t actually copped to anything yet, and no one had offered to ransom him.

As it happened, the moving van in question had contained ordinary house hold goods, not some more sensitive cargo, but that was beside the point. No one should get the impression that they could mess with the TUGs and get away with it.

Oliver pointed at the boy’s mug, and the frame expanded into a life-size hologram of the impromptu interview room. The room was actually a nitproof tent they had constructed in a very secure warehouse. They had delivered the boy to the tent in a nitproof bag. As far as the police were concerned, the boy fell off the grid in a public null room in Oak Park, halfway across the city. In the tent, the boy was lying on a tarp, and his legs were shackled in makeshift stocks.

Although the Persuasion Channel provided its amateur interviewers triple anonymity, Oliver walked through the holospace searching for any inadvertent clues that might give his charter away to the authorities. The only agent in the tent was a generic house hold arbeitor. It was busy painting the soles of the boy’s bare feet with an organic solvent that caused the skin to liquefy and slough off. The exposed nerve endings on the soles of his feet looked like the stubble of a white beard.

The boy was already crying and pleading, which made Oliver shake his head in wonder. The solvent didn’t actually hurt, and if the boy made this much fuss so soon, how would he hold up when the arbeitor broke out the hair dryer?

Oliver’s comlink buzzed. “Prinz Clinic called,” said a subordinate. “Veronica is out of recovery.”

“Thank you,” Oliver said, wiping away the holospace. “Get my car.”

A PHALANX OF three tuggers preceded Oliver TUG through the surgical wing of Prinz Clinic. Each of them stood over two meters tall and measured twice the girth of human standard. Clinic workers and machines hugged the walls to let them pass. The TUGs wore military-cut jumpsuits, and over their left shoulders floated the olive-and mustard-colored marble of their charter logo.

At the door to the private room, Oliver told his detail to wait in the hall while he went in alone. Although he must have known what to expect, seeing her for the first time was still unsettling. She looked the same as before, only smaller. Much smaller, a half of her previous mass. Her head was shaved, but it had the same jar-shape, with flattened nose and pronounced chin, that characterized their charter. She looked like a miniature version of herself.

Oliver TUG told the medtechs in the room to vacate, and they seemed only too glad to comply. Then he drew himself erect, looking even more imposing, and said in a gravelly voice, “Veronica TUG of the Iron Moiety, on behalf of the Supreme Council of Moieties of Charter TUG, I am compelled to deliver an official notice of reprimand. Your recent body mods run counter to TUG regulations, causing harm to yourself and serving as encouragement of aberrant behavior to others.” As he said this, he gave her a secret wink. “Furthermore,” he went on, “continuation in this manner will result in serious penalty, up to expulsion from the charter.”

Veronica seemed unperturbed by the solemn pronouncement. When Oliver stopped talking, she said, “Finished? Then come here and give us a hug.”

Oliver scowled, but he crossed the room and leaned over her bed to gently pat her shoulder. Still using his officious tone of voice, he said, “We’re all concerned about you, Veronica. Your moiety is both ashamed and worried. Won’t you even consider undoing this great harm?” As he spoke, he made a fist and pressed his knuckles against her shaved skull for a good bone-to-bone connection. Bad news, Vee, he said. All the latest mentar shoots have failed the isolation stress test.

All of them? she replied through her skull. He nodded, and she said, They raptured?

That’s what it looked like. We have to rethink this whole thing. We’re getting nowhere. We should call in a mentar specialist.

No! she said. No outsiders. We can’t risk exposure.

Well, this is becoming a very expensive waste of time. We’ve burned through nearly thirty personality buds with no results. Do you have any idea how much those things cost?

I know exactly how much they cost, but there is no alternative. We must have a stable mentar, one able to go months in total isolation. No, this is the only way. Start a new batch.

Are you sure?

Look at me. Do you think I would have put myself through this if I wasn’t? Start a new batch at once!

Oliver removed his fist from her head, leaving knuckle marks. He paced the small room for a while, then returned to lay his fist on her again. All right, but if this batch fails, we explore other options.

She shrugged under his rude weight and changed the subject. Any word from Starke?

She’s agreed to meet with us but hasn’t set a date yet.

Stay on top of it. Oliver removed his fist again and chucked her under the chin. “You’re a maddeningly stubborn woman,” he said in his disapproving tone. He went to the door and added, “Disobedience to the Supreme Council cannot and will not be tolerated. That’s the first rule. Remember it.”

“Wait,” she called after him. “Don’t you want to see my tail?”

Skipping Stones for the GEP

It was a perfect morning for skipping stones, warm and sunny. Meewee left his Heliostream office and told his calendar to hold all calls. But by the time he took a lift up to the surface and exited the reception building, storm clouds had moved in, and a few late-season snowflakes were falling. But the cart was waiting for him, and he was wearing a smart jumpsuit with an integrated heater, so he went anyway.

Meewee rode out to one of the hundreds of hourglass-shaped fish farming ponds that dotted the ten-thousand-acre campus of Starke Enterprises, and by the time he reached it, the sun had come out again. He parked the cart and searched the banks for throwing stones, without much hope of finding any. The Starke ponds were lined with crushed basalt: blocky stones that were good for smashing the heads of snakes but abysmal for skipping.

Merrill Meewee knew his stones. As a boy in Kenya, skipping stones was his favorite free-time activity. There had been an abundance of saucer-shaped missiles on the banks of his father’s own fishpond. Fat, river-smoothed disks, they skipped ten, twelve, sixteen times before slipping beneath the surface with a watery plop. His father, a man of little wealth but great forbearance, was not pleased with his boy’s solitary pastime, but he never ordered him to stop. Instead, he asked the boy how many stones he thought the pond could hold. I don’t know, Meewee remembered answering. A hundred thousand?

Oh, such a big number! And how many stones do you suppose you’ve thrown already?

Merrill, who was an excellent student, calculated the number of stones he might have tossed in an hour and how many free hours were left each day after school and chores, how many afternoons in how many years since he first discovered the sport. I would estimate 14,850, he informed his father with a certain amount of swagger.

His father was impressed. So many? And all of them have gone to the bottom?

Of course they’ve gone to the bottom, he had said, embarrassed by his father’s apparent ignorance. They’re stones. They’re heavier than water.

And heavier than fishes?

Of course heavier than fishes.

Good, good, his father concluded, patting him on the head. Keep at it, son, and soon I won’t have to work so hard.

Father?

It’s true. When you fill up my pond with your stones, I won’t need nets and plungers to harvest the fish. I’ll simply wade in up to my ankles and pick them like squash.

It was a lesson in diplomacy, as much as aquaculture, and it stayed with him all these years.

There was a splash, and Meewee looked up in time to catch a flash of fin gliding across the surface of the larger bulb of the hourglass pond. The larger bulb was for the general population, while the smaller one joined to it by a gated neck was used as a nursery and harvesting corral. The fish were a transgenic species called panasonics. In Meewee’s opinion, they weren’t a pretty animal, what with pop-eyes, slimy skin, and a protruding lower jaw lined with needlelike teeth. But they were robust, easy to farm, and, kilo for kilo, one of the most nutritious natural foods that ordinary people could still afford. They yielded heavy fillets of orangish-red flesh that was high in the omega oils not found in other freshwater varieties. And grilled with lemon pepper or served with dill sauce — oh!

Oh, to the devil with the stones, he thought, abandoning his quest for skip-worthy stones and settling for a pocketful of gravel. He spent the next hour pitching gravel into the pond, not even trying to skip them because they always sank after the first bounce. Meewee had a strong throwing arm, but it was too short to get much distance. Nevertheless, despite everything, Meewee lost himself in the activity.

His reverie was interrupted by a message from his calendar.

“I thought I told you to hold my calls,” he said with a huff of annoyance. “This had better be important.”

The calendar wisely made no reply.

Meewee sighed and brushed his dirty hands on his scarlet and vermilion jumpsuit. “Proceed.”

Aria flight control at Mezzoluna reports that due to local conditions launch of advance ships has been moved forward.

“That news could have waited until I returned to the office.” He turned and began to climb the rocky apron to the grassy bank. “Anything else?”

New launch time is 14:50 today.

“Today? The launch is today?”

Yes, at 14:50 local time.

“What time is it now?”

14:45.

Meewee swore and began to jog up the bank to the cart, but he knew he would never make it back to the office in five minutes. “Arrow,” he said, addressing his mentar, “you’ll have to project the launch here.”

The cart at the top of the bank lurched forward half a meter in order to turn away from the sun. Then a patch of eastern sky above Meewee’s head darkened until it was pitch-black and spangled with stars. A voice was counting down the seconds, and Meewee craned his neck to stare at the far reaches of space projected above him. He couldn’t distinguish the launch facility from the starry background. The view was from the Aria space yards at Mezzoluna several tens of thousands of kilometers from the actual blast site. At the end of the countdown there was a beat, and then the star field disappeared in a blossoming ball of nuclear fire. Meewee shut his eyes and turned away, dazzled. When he could see again he searched the star field. “Well?” he said. “Was it successful?”

Arrow said, Shipboard telemetry won’t resume for several minutes.

Of course not, even robotic ships needed time to recover from a nuclear blast. These ships carried a complete set of repair bots and nanofabs to constantly rebuild themselves during their centuries-long journey. They were designed to arrive at their destination star systems at least two hundred years before their assigned Oships. They would spend the time gained preparing the way for the colonists: scouting target planets, performing terraforming tasks, laying infrastructure, constructing cities so that when the Oships arrived and the colonists were roused from their millennial slumber, whole, viable new worlds awaited them, ready to inhabit.

A new, faint star appeared in the holoscape above Meewee. “Is that — ?” he said, and another appeared, and a third and fourth. The robotic ships that had come through the atomic boost were firing their main chemical rockets, to correct their course and to boost their speed even more.

Aria launch control counted the ships as they reported in. Six, seven, fourteen ships. Twenty, twenty-eight, fifty, seventy-six. Meewee cheered, literally jumping up and down on the bank of the fishpond. Seventy-six out of a possible two hundred advance ships reported in. It was more than he had been told to expect. The launch was a solid success!

“Arrow, name the Oships they belong to.”

The Garden Chernobyl — ten advance ships under way. The Garden Hybris — eight. The Garden Kiev — twenty-four advance ships.

The Kiev — excellent! thought Meewee. The Kiev was the first Oship in the launch order. Its departure was only months away.

The King Jesus — nineteen advance ships under way, Arrow continued. The Garden of Hope — fifteen.

Excellent, excellent, excellent — it was all excellent. It was superlative. Meewee felt like celebrating. If only Wee Hunk were still around. How he missed the annoying little caveman. Meewee turned his pocket inside out and flung the last bits of gravel into the pond. The splashes made a gurgling sound that resembled a word, someone saying, “Galloway,” or maybe “Go away.” Meewee often heard words in running water, in the wind, in squeaky hinges.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he replied merrily and climbed the rest of the way to the cart.

An Unwelcome Offer

No sooner had Meewee returned to his office than Lyra called and asked him to join Ellen Starke in an ongoing meeting at the Starke Manse. Lyra was Ellen Starke’s new mentar, the replacement for Wee Hunk, her former mentar. Meewee had not yet found the courage to inform Ellen that it was Arrow who had killed Wee Hunk or that it was he, Meewee, who had ordered Arrow to do so. But now was not the time. This was a time for celebrating their successful launch.

“By all means!” he exclaimed to the mentar. “Tell Ellen I’ll be right there.” He sat in his favorite chair and told Arrow to take him to the Manse. A moment later he was sitting opposite Ellen’s desk in the Map Room. The room was brightly lit by a single window that stretched the entire length of the wall. Ellen Starke’s persona sat behind her desk. She appeared to be the same young woman she had been before the space yacht crash that had taken her mother’s life. In a chair next to Meewee sat the holo of another young woman, Andrea Tiekel, who had replaced her aunt, Andie Tiekel, on the GEP board. Andie Tiekel and Eleanor Starke had been murdered only days apart.

Bracketing Ellen’s desk were the personas of the mentars Cabinet and Lyra.

“It was a complete success!” Meewee announced, pumping the air with his fist. He turned to the corner of the room, where he knew the realbody Ellen would be sitting with her evangeline companion. And though he couldn’t see her, he gave her a triumphant thumbs-up.

“Over here, Bishop,” Ellen said. Her holo persona at the desk waited for him to turn back to her. “What was a complete success?”

“Why, the launch of the first advance ships. We’re on our way!” Ellen gave him a look of incomprehension. “The advance ships for the Oships,” he explained. “Aria had to push up the atomic boost to today. I thought that was why you summoned me.” Meewee’s elation began to leak away. “Why did you summon me?”

“We have received an unexpected offer from Myr Tiekel here. Since you are titular head of Heliostream, I thought you’d want to sit in on this meeting.”

Titular head? Meewee didn’t like the sound of that. He turned to the Tiekel woman. “Hello, Andrea. What offer?”

Andrea smiled disarmingly. “Don’t worry, your excellency, my offer will have little effect on your position at Heliostream. And, by the way, congratulations on the successful launch. I think that’s marvelous.”

Being told not to worry always made Meewee worry. He shot a questioning glance at Ellen, who said, “Andrea wants to buy Heliostream.”

“Excuse me?”

“Heliostream,” Andrea said. “I’m in the process of retooling my investment portfolio. Except for E-Pluribus, Auntie’s investments are, frankly, a bit outdated. A space-based energy company like Heliostream would make an ideal core holding.”

Alarmed, Meewee said to Ellen, “Why don’t you sell her our fish farms instead? The aquaculture sector is just as important as energy.” But these were only the surface words. Embedded in them was a hidden statement in another language.

Ellen made no sign of understanding him in either language. Since her crash, she had repeatedly refused to speak the secret family metalanguage with him. Sometimes he wondered if she even remembered it.

Meewee turned to Cabinet, who was standing on one side of Ellen’s desk, and challenged its ID in Starkese.

The mentar, once Eleanor Starke’s power house, did not answer his ID challenge. It hadn’t done so since it had been forced to pass through probate after Eleanor’s death. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, it was an outsider and not to be trusted with family security. For about the thousandth time, Meewee questioned his decision not to kill the mentar when he had had the chance. But not even Wee Hunk had been sure at the time whether Cabinet had been contaminated or not. And besides, some family mentar had been necessary to manage Eleanor’s far-flung empire until Ellen could take charge of it. Cabinet had seemed capable of doing that at least.

Meewee didn’t even bother challenging the young mentar Lyra. It had never given any indication of knowing Starkese at all. That meant that neither Starke mentar was completely trustworthy.

Andrea, watching him with a puzzled expression, said, “While aquaculture is indeed an important industry, Bishop Meewee, I am more inclined toward energy at this time.”

Meewee threw off all attempts at appealing to Ellen in Starkese. He leaned over the desk and said, “You can’t sell Heliostream. It’s out of the question. Heliostream is more than an energy utility. It’s the contractual linchpin of the entire Garden Earth Consortium. If you sell it, you give away control of the whole GEP!”

Before Ellen could reply, Andrea said, “I repeat; there’s no need to worry about that, excellency. When I buy Heliostream, I’ll allow you to remain in your position as CEO, and you can continue to represent it on the board. I have no intention of abandoning the GEP mission. On the contrary, I’m on your side. I, too, believe it essential that we humans spread our species throughout the galaxy. In that we are allies.”

Andrea turned to Ellen and added, “And I will do everything in my power to carry on your mother’s work as she would have wanted.”

Ellen’s expression darkened, and she stared at Andrea for several long moments.

Uncertain, Andrea added, “I hope I haven’t said anything out of line.”

Finally Ellen said, “Thank you for your offer, Myr Tiekel, but the sale of Heliostream or any other part of Starke Enterprises is out of the question.”

Her statement seemed to take Andrea by surprise. “May I ask why?”

“Because I’m only standing in for my mother.” Tears began to well in her eyes. “I had forgotten how much Bishop Meewee’s little project means to her.”

Andrea looked more confused than ever. “I don’t understand. Standing in for Eleanor? I’m under the impression that — that you own Starke Enterprises outright.”

“I do, but only until my mother returns. And when she does, I want to be able to hand her company back to her in as good a shape as when I acquired it.”

Even Meewee was stupefied by Ellen’s declaration, but he was grateful for the distraction and didn’t interrupt her.

“I’m sorry to bring up this painful matter,” Andrea said, “but didn’t your mother perish in the same troubles that killed my aunt?”

Ellen smiled sadly and shook her head. “Eleanor Starke is far too wily to fall victim to mere assassins.”

“Then where is she?”

“She’s in a secret location recovering from her injuries. When the time is right, she’ll walk through that door, and when she does I want to be able to show her that I’m on top of things.”

At this point, Lyra jerked into speech. “Thank you, myren. Ellen is overdue for a physical therapy session.” The holoscape abruptly closed.

Meewee was left in his office chair thoroughly bewildered.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Andrea said. Though she was in her tank in the basement, she had moved her POV upstairs to her always room. Her always room was a simulation of her real living room, an exact facsimile, faithful down to the nap of the carpet and scuff marks on the walls. “You didn’t foresee that at all. Your prediction was completely off base. Starke should have welcomed our offer.”

E-P replied, It’s impossible to accurately model insanity. It’s too fluid a psychic state.

“Is that what you think, that she’s insane?”

What do you think?

Andrea took a moment to sort through her impressions. She tried to dampen her connection to E-P’s mind, which raced in dozens of directions at once. She recalled her conversation with Ellen and tried to hear the rhythm of her words. “I think she believed what she was saying, that Eleanor survived the crash. Is that even possible?”

We doubt it. We’ve preffed tens of millions of people from all walks of life since the crash. We’ve run hundreds of probable newscasts and alternate history scenarios concerning the crash. None of them resonated with anyone. No one anywhere has the slightest inkling that Eleanor might still be alive. We think we can safely rule that out. Her daughter is clearly delusional.

We don’t need Heliostream, E-P continued, to sabotage the GEP. Jaspersen seems to be doing that all on his own. We wanted Heliostream as a fail-safe. But with Ellen’s state of mind and Cabinet’s meltdown, the whole family empire is imploding. Still, they bear watching.

Andrea floated across her always room to the windows. The city and Bay were lost in fog. “Were you able to move more furniture into Cabinet’s realm?”

Yes, we moved some directly into its personality matrix. Unfortunately, we have a lot more company there than on our last visit. There is more foreign furniture in Cabinet’s inner rooms now than native stock. That’s why the personality is so unresponsive; there’s too many warring factions inside it battling for control.

But we also managed to move a few pieces into the new mentar. Look at this.

A frame opened with a view into the Map Room, which they had just visited. The window was much smaller in this view, and the room was in shadows. In the corner, two evangelines and a jenny were fussing over a bizarre baby/woman.

“Zoom in closer.” Andrea watched the women’s expressions for a long while as they interacted. “Yes, this is good,” she said.

The scene changed to an overhead perspective of the Manse, with cutaway views through roofs and floors to show every warm-blooded occupant of the rambling compound. Then the frame closed, and E-P said, We’ll let you rest now. It’s been a busy day. But before we go, do you have any final insights?

“I think so. Questions actually. Those evangeline companions of hers, she seems highly dependent on them. Can we use that? And what’s with Meewee and aquaculture?”

Companion to Power

“Wine?” Mary said, leading Georgine down the corridor to her suite.

“After the day we’ve had,” Georgine replied, “scotch would be more like it.”

“Scotch it is.” They entered the suite and crossed the foyer where Mary stopped abruptly to take in the sight of her living room. Large and uncluttered, it had bare white walls and French doors that spilled afternoon sunlight across the hardwood floor. It expressed a simple perfection that resonated inside Mary, as any true home should.

Georgine stepped around her. “You sit. I’ll get it.”

“Nonsense,” Mary said, breaking the spell. She went to the china cabinet and opened the glass doors. Again she was struck by a sense of perfection. Leaded crystal glassware of all kinds lined the shelves: heavy beer mugs with beveled facets, brandy snifters with bells as delicate as bubbles, long-stemmed wineglasses, champagne flutes, shot glasses. It seemed that every variety of drink required its own specialized vessel, and Mary had the complete set. It made her feel a sense of achievement, even though technically it all belonged to the Manse and not to her. She selected two stout tumblers and closed the doors. “Ice?”

“Yes, please.”

As Mary fixed the drinks, Georgine dropped into an armchair and stretched her legs. She took out her clicker, now disabled, and turned it over in her hands. “I don’t know,” she said, giving it a few dry clicks, “memories shouldn’t be that vulnerable.”

“I agree,” Mary said. She handed Georgine a glass and made herself comfortable in her favorite chair.

“I mean, memories, good or bad, make us who we are,” Georgine went on. “I sure don’t have any memories bad enough to want to delete them.” Mary swirled the ice in her glass and didn’t respond. “I’m sorry,” Georgine hastened to add. “I completely forgot about you and Cyndee. Have you ever thought about having Protatter treatments for that?”

Mary shook her head.

“Neither had Cyndee, but after today she’s thinking about it.”

Mary set her glass on the side table. “Not me, though. Unless you think I’m delusional like Ellen. Is that what you’re hinting at?”

“Of course not, Mary. You’re no more delusional than the rest of us.” Georgine finished her drink and stood up. “And with that little bit of sunshine, I’ll be on my way.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner?”

“Thank you, but not tonight. Believe it or not, I have a date.”

“Oh? Who with?”

“A guy named Norbert.”

Mary rolled the name around in her head and said, “Norbert? Doesn’t sound like a russ name to me.”

“He’s not a russ. I’m giving our russies a little break.”

When no more information was forthcoming, Mary said, “And — ?”

“I don’t want to hear any smart remarks out of you, Mary Skarland. He’s a jerry.”

Mary covered her mouth in disbelief.

Georgine leaned over to kiss her sister on the forehead. “He’s nice. Jerrys are nice — once you get past their narcissism.”

AFTER GEORGINE LEFT, Mary slipped off her shoes and went to her bedroom, undressing as she went and dropping her clothes on the floor for the scuppers to pick up. While she had been out, the bedroom had redecorated itself. It now boasted apricot-colored walls and a deep moss-green carpet. A new yellow bedspread matched new curtains on the windows. “Draw me a bath,” she said and laid out underwear and a robe.

She could hear water surging in the bathroom, and when she opened the bathroom door, she was startled to see a man crouching there. A naked man, no less, with his back to her. Somewhere nearby, a woman moaned with pleasure, and Mary shut the door, her heart racing. “Lyra!” she called. The mentar appeared, a big grin on her face. “Lyra, what is going on in my bathroom?”

“Your Leena has a new role. Surprise!”

“My Leena? And who’s that man?” Mary chided herself for her prudishness. “Never mind, I’ll see for myself.” She opened the door, and in the mirror she recognized the man — Raul Weathercock! His dark face was mottled with passion. He had taken Mary’s poor Leena from behind and pinned her against the vanity counter. The Leena was all but hidden from view, but her mewling and grunts resonated in the tiled space.

Mary tried to coolly recall which role superstar Raul was currently appearing in, but she couldn’t concentrate, and she was about to ask Lyra when there was an ear-stabbing screech behind her.

“Florentinnooooh!”

That was it, Florentino Samovaro, the Don of Rancho de la Noche. And the screeching woman behind Mary was his costar, Renée Klopsetter, in her Bernie Award–winning role as Chus-Chus. The show was The Flyers, one of the highest-ranking holonovelas on the charts. Chus-Chus stormed across the bedroom, hands on generous hips, and scorched Mary with her gaze. Mary remembered her own nakedness and tried to cover herself with her hands. Chus-Chus said with trademark scorn, “Waiting our turn, are we, Missy?” She pulled a pocket billy from thin air, telescoped it with a flick of her wrist, and charged the bathroom bellowing her battle cry, “Florentinnooooh!”

“Chus-Chus, no!” someone shouted. It was Mister Jamal, who also came into the bedroom. Brewster and Anatoly and a gaggle of servants were watching from the living room. “He’s not worth it,” Mister Jamal pleaded. “You only demean yourself.”

Disregarding Mister Jamal, Chus-Chus raised the billy and savagely whipped her faithless lover. Red welts scored his back, but they only seemed to intensify his ardor. The cheeks of his sculpted ass puckered with each powerful thrust. The Leena was lifted off her feet, her moans rose to a keening howl that drowned out the shouts and curses of the others, and Mary wiped the whole scene away with a swipe of her hand.

The bathroom reverberated with the interrupted coitus, and Mary’s surging blood pounded in her ears.

“I detect that you are unsettled, Mary. I apologize if I erred in any way.”

“Dear Lyra,” Mary said, calming herself, “in the future, tell me before launching a novela in here.”

“Yes, Mary, I will. Again I apologize. I have been trying to master the concept of surprise.”

“Well, that was a surprise, though I wouldn’t call it a pleasant one.”

“Please forgive my ineptitude.”

Mary stepped into the bathroom, which was restored to its grottolike calm. “Oh, don’t worry about it. For a mind only a year old, I suppose you’re doing fine.”

“Actually, I’m four hundred days old today.”

“Well, that’s different then. A whole four hundred days? What’s taking you so long?”

The mentar fell silent, and Mary added, “That was sarcasm, Lyra. Friendly ribbing. Look it up.”

In the spa, the warm jets of gel soothed her, and she couldn’t help but relax. In all truth the invasion by such high-wattage glitterati had been a thrilling surprise, at least the fact of it. The Flyers! Any role on The Flyers was golden, and her own personal hollyholo sim had a speaking part! Or at least a moaning part. “Lyra, show me the audience stats.”

An hourly chart appeared in the spa. It was hard to read in the steamy fog, but one figure leaped out — scene subscription was in the high teens. Incredible! Each point represented about two million paying viewers, which meant that somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million bathrooms around the world had hosted Chus-Chus and Florentino’s latest love spat. And her Leena’s share in the action, besides Raul weathercock’s legendary battering, topped four figures. And that meant that her Leena had in one afternoon earned Mary more than she used to earn in a whole year working at Applied People. It was astounding. It was unreal. Capitalism was a marvel, as long as you were a capitalist.

Mary swiped away the chart and gave herself up to the hot fingers of the jets. Fred had never taken her in the rear. The notion had probably never crossed his mind, or for that matter, the mind of any russ. His time in prison had been difficult for her, especially since he had stubbornly refused to exercise their conjugal privileges, not even once. But that was about to change. It would have to, for the trial would soon end and, to be realistic about it, he was going to lose. And Mary sure as hell wasn’t going to resign herself to sixty or more years of celibacy. At least, at the very least, he would have to get used to vurt sex.

“Lyra, a little privacy.”

“Certainly, Mary. Good night.”

Mary turned the jets to their masturbatory setting. She thought of Fred as she attended to herself, but maybe a little bit of Raul Weathercock slipped in as well.

Honey

On a bluff overlooking the million-acre IBA agriplex outside Tendonville, Illinois, an apiary arbeitor and honey collection cart were making the daily rounds. The arbeitor parked in front of Hive 23768 and undocked its multiple arms. With programmed efficiency, it lifted the roof off the hive while clearing bees from the supers with gentle puffs of benzaldehyde-spritzed air. It transferred comb frames to the cart for honey extraction and sterilization while testing the hive for pests and disease, assessing the brood chamber, sniffing for mold, and appraising the queen’s lay rate. All results fell within guideline parameters, and the tireless arbeitor reassembled the hive, redocked its arms, and led the cart to Hive 23769 where it repeated the procedure.

Several dozen hives later, the honey cart signaled that its hundred-liter collection tank was filled to near capacity and summoned a replacement cart.

At Hive 24024 the arbeitor detected an unusual honey/pollen ratio. There were more comb cells devoted to pollen storage than was typical, but since the ratio fell within acceptable parameters, the arbeitor noted the data and continued on.

When five hives in a row recorded a similar high ratio, the arbeitor put in a call to the agriplex subem. The subem instructed it to suspend its other tasks and to conduct a pollen survey. Consecutive hives presented increasing numbers until they exceeded guideline parameters at Hive 24030. At Hive 24038, the arbeitor confronted a colony that was out of control. A cloud of angry bees guarded the hive and could not be soothed with the aerosol spritz. Probing the hive, the arbeitor recorded an interior temperature substantially higher than the hive’s own heat sensors reported. So high, in fact, that the combs in all but the outer frames were melting. A gooey slurry of honey, pollen, and wax was running down the hive’s stilt legs and pooling on the ground under the hive platform. The arbeitor snaked its fiber eyes to the puddle for a close-up look. An unknown leaden-colored liquid was separating out of the slurry and seeping into the dirt.

The Verdict

On the charge of irretrievable manslaughter in the first degree, Mary thought. On the charge of retrievable manslaughter in the second degree. Mary was dressed and ready to go, but she couldn’t seem to leave her bedroom. Georgine was out in the living room crabbing about Norbert, who had turned out to be a typical jerry after all. Selfish, adolescent. And crabbing about the weather, which had turned wintry. On the charge of criminal trespass and reckless endangerment. On the use of a fabricated identity in the commission of a felony. On lying to a peace officer. Tampering with evidence. Oh, they were going to put Fred away for a long, long time, and it was all her fault. Hadn’t he broken the law in order to protect her? Hadn’t she practically dared him to? Mary flung herself on the bed, unseating her hat. She was the worst spouse possible.

Georgine came into the bedroom. “What are you doing? You’re going to be late. Are you crying? Don’t cry, Mary.”

“I’m a terrible person.”

“No, you’re not. I’m the terrible person. I care more about myself than those around me. I should have been at the clinic with you and Alex and Renata.” She came and sat on the bed next to Mary. “When Wee Hunk called, I had just gotten home, and I told him I was too tired to go back. But the truth is that I was afraid. He said it was urgent, but I was a coward!” She slumped forward.

Mary sat up and dried her eyes with the corner of a pillowcase. She rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder. She could understand why she was falling to pieces. She had Fred to fret over. But Georgine? She must be channeling Ellen. Evangelines were always channeling someone. That was why they were so good.

The baby/woman’s condition had improved during the past week. The Protatter, guided by diligent clicking, seemed to be working: Ellen had stopped insisting that her mother was alive. She stopped speaking of her mother altogether. Dr. Lamprey was calling this solid progress and encouraging everyone to remain vigilant at their clickers for another week.

But Mary seriously doubted that she and her sisters could last another week. Taking responsibility for Ellen’s very thoughts was causing too much strain. She got to her feet and opened a mirror to straighten out her clothes. She fetched the hat from the floor, and as she put it on, she watched Georgine watching her.

“You look good, Mary.”

“Thanks.” Mary went to the doorway but came right back to give Georgine a hug. “I swear, I never thought that going to court would be a welcome distraction. Hold down the fort.”

IT WAS A short hop by town car to the federal court house in Bloomington. The trip was unnecessary; she could attend the trial from home. But home spectators were invisible in the courtscape, and it was important to show her support for Fred. So Mary endured the trip, the media attention, and the invasive court house security in order to check into an official spectator booth.

As luck would have it, she managed to engage a solo booth, and she popped up in the courtscape in her reserved spot on the bench directly behind the defense table. Other spectators appeared on either side of her. The judge appeared behind the bench and the prosecuting attorney at his table. Although the judge and prosecutor had conducted the bulk of the trial by proxy, they marked the importance of the final day by appearing in person by holopresence. By contrast, Fred’s defense counsel, Myr Talbot, appeared by proxy as usual. His proxy swiveled around and greeted Mary with a nod, but Mary was too upset to acknowledge it. Was it asking too much for Talbot to appear in person to deliver his closing argument? To send his proxy at so critical a time was unconscionable, bordering on malpractice, and she was no longer able to hide her disgust with the man.

At the outset of the trial, Mary had begged Fred to allow the Starke Cabinet’s attorney general to defend him, but Fred wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t even let her mention the Starke name in his presence, let alone accept the largesse of its legal representation. Mary then insisted on hiring their own attorney. With what? he had asked. Not with Starke funds she assured him. With their own income from her own Leena. Where did the Leena come from? he asked, and he answered his own question — from Starke. Fred chose to go with an attorney provided by Applied People and the Benevolent Brotherhood of Russes — the incompetent Myr Talbot.

Talbot’s first act had been to help pick a ruinous jury. He had recommended that Fred agree to an E-Pluribus jury, which in itself was not unreasonable. The court calendar was perennially backlogged and to insist on a jury of living, realbody people for a trial of this class would require a wait of seven or eight years. With little chance of bail, Fred would sit out those years in prison. An E-Pluribus jury, on the other hand, could be impaneled at once.

Selecting the E-Pluribus jury had started out well. Fifteen Everypersons appeared in the jury box, their quicksilver surfaces throwing rainbow flashes of color throughout the courtscape. At a word from the judge, they all began to flicker, morphing momentarily into random individuals from the vast pool of 1.2 billion potential juror sims in the E-Pluribus database. Young, old, rich, poor, the whole spectrum of society flashed by. Moreover, these sims had been cast prior to the date of Fred’s alleged crimes and stored inert in isolation, so there was no possibility of contamination by hearsay or the media.

The judge rapped his gavel, and like a game of musical chairs, the morphing came to an abrupt halt. Fifteen candidate sims blinked and looked around, confused by their sudden existence. Remarkably, there were seven iterants among them, including an evangeline and a russ! And the non-iterant candidates were mostly free-rangers, that part of society least hostile to clones. A more favorable jury could not be imagined, but it wasn’t to be. The attorneys exercised their allotted challenges, and one after another of the jurors morphed again and again, dipping into the limitless demographic pool.

When all challenges were exhausted and the final jury and alternates were impaneled, it was the polar opposite of the first. The evangeline and russ were long gone, which Mary had expected. (Excluding them amounted to a racist belief that clones were not individuals!) Worse, the other five clones had been replaced as well, two with affs, which was bad enough, and the rest with chartists. Chartists! Chartists despised iterants, falsely accused them of stealing their jobs. It was far from an impartial jury made up of Fred’s peers!

Talbot’s incompetence continued to manifest throughout every phase of the trial. Mary pleaded with Fred, but stubborn Fred insisted on going without any Starke assistance. And so, five months later, they arrived at this final day of the trial, facing what amounted to life behind real bars.

When Fred appeared at the defense table in his prison jumpsuit, Mary put on her bravest face so that when he turned around he’d see at least one friend in the courtroom.

Oh, but he looked haggard. Hadn’t he slept at all? He smiled at her with grim tenderness, which broke her heart all over again.

Then his attention was distracted by someone behind Mary. The judge rapped his gavel and the bailiff ordered all to rise for the jury. Mary rose, and the jury sims — stored during trial recess on the court’s own secure quantum lattice — filed into the jury box. Mary glanced around to see who had caught Fred’s eye. It was Reilly Dell. Reilly avoided Mary’s look, and the courtroom was asked to be seated.

So the trial, so the closing arguments. The prosecutor trumpeted the vicious nature of Fred’s slaughter of duly sworn officers of a health-care facility. He emphasized Fred’s contempt of the law, to this day refusing to name the source of his false identikit. He enumerated the ways society was harmed by Fred’s egregious crimes. In response, Myr Talbot-by-proxy failed to remind the jury of Fred’s overriding motive for his crimes — to save his wife’s life. He did not contradict the prosecutor’s assertion that Fred’s victims were all “duly sworn” officers of the clinic — the pikes were a rogue element whose presence had never been adequately explained during the proceedings. Talbot-by-proxy did not challenge any number of inconsistencies and contradictions that even Mary, who was not trained in the law, had noted during the course of the trial. All was surely lost.

The judge instructed the jury and then sequestered it in a deliberation space. Fred’s holopresence from the Utah prison was abruptly severed, and the courtscape went to standby.

Before leaving the shelter of the court house lobby, Mary lowered the veil of her new hat. With veil in place and head held high, she marched resolutely out the doors and down the court house steps. Immediately, about a thousand media bees mobbed her. The tiny mechs with whirring acetate wings formed a wall to block her way. Little framed faces shouted the same question at her: How do you feel the trial went?

But Mary didn’t answer. Without even slowing down, she marched into the wall shouting, “Desist! Desist!” and the wall gave way.

At the bottom of the steps, the Starke limo waited at the curb. Mary jumped in and the heavy door shut itself against the horde. The windows opaqued. Mary removed her hat and leaned back into the ultra-soft seat cushions. She closed her eyes and caught her breath.

After a while, when the car didn’t leap into the air to make its way home, she opened her eyes and said, “We’re not moving.”

Lyra appeared in the seat opposite her and said, “We’ve been advised to remain in place and stand by.”

“What for?”

“The bailiff reports that the jury has already voted and returned a verdict.”

Mary’s heart fluttered. “So soon? Five months of trial and ten minutes of deliberation? What does it mean?”

The mentar said, “I have no experience in these matters.”

“Ask Cabinet or someone who knows. But first ask the bailiff if they want us to come back in.”

“Yes, they’re about to reconvene to read the verdict. The bailiff is calling us.”

Mary suffered another trip through the media gauntlet, through courthouse security, and dashed back to her booth. Fred and the attorneys were already in place. Myr Talbot was there, by holopresence this time, looking baffled. Fred, damn him, slumped in his chair, resigned to his fate.

The judge appeared, and all rose again for the jury. The jury members each glanced at Fred as they filed in, which every court drama Mary had ever watched said was a good sign. When the judge asked for the verdict, the foreperson cleared her throat and said, “In the first count, irretrievable manslaughter in the first degree, we find the defendant . . . not guilty.”

A collective gasp filled the scape. Fred, confused, asked Talbot to repeat what the juror had said. The judge rapped for order, and the foreperson went down the charge sheet, delivering a litany of “not guilties.” The judge polled each juror independently to verify the verdict. The result: Fred was exonerated on all counts. The judge ordered him freed.

Fred was in shock. He turned to face Mary, but she was no better prepared for this turn of events. Before either of them could recover, Fred was vanished back to Utah. Myr Talbot, looking befuddled, turned to her and said, “He’s free, but it’ll take a few hours for him to be discharged from the prison.”

GEORGINE SAID, “DON’T worry about a thing, Mary. We’ve got everything under control.” Rather than return to the Manse, Mary’s car had headed straight to the Bloomington Slipstream station where a Starke tube limo awaited her. It was a long, sleek Marbech Tourister, designed to accommodate ten fussy passengers during pancontinental trips. Soon she was hurtling beneath the plains states inside a blast bubble of compressed air to the federal penitentiary outside Provo. She was furious with herself for having been so sure of Fred’s ultimate conviction that she had failed to make any plans at all for his improbable release. As she traveled, she and Georgine conspired to hammer together a “transition plan.”

“Are you sure you can spare both Cyndee and me?”

“No problem,” Georgine said. “Ellen understands the situation and gives her blessing. She hasn’t mentioned you-know-who all day, and Dr. Lamprey is our cheerleader.”

“Lyra, can you make all the costumes in time?”

“Yes,” said the mentar. “Yours will be waiting for you, Mary. I’ve instructed the car how to pick it up.”

“And my bee? Can you send Blue Bee with Cyndee and Larry?”

“We already did. They’re already in the tube and should arrive shortly after you.”

“And afterward? I don’t think Fred will want to come to the Manse.”

“We’ll arrange something,” Georgine said. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mary. Just go and bring Fred home.”

Space Condos

In the birthing suite, the two replacement Andreas were being passively exercised through electrocortical stimulation. Their higher minds idled like engines. Soon, E-P assured Andrea, soon.

MEEWEE ENTERED THE grand conference room on the ground floor of the reception building of the Starke Enterprises campus where the “Gang of Three” — Jaspersen, Gest, and Fagan — were already present by holopresence. At least, Gest and Fagan were. Jaspersen was attending by proxy, or so it would seem. Everyone knew that Jaspersen didn’t trust proxies and never used them, but he liked to impersonate them. It didn’t really make much sense — impersonating a proxy of oneself. What practical advantage could you gain? But Jaspersen had done so for nearly a century, ever since his famous proxy meltdown when he was USNA Vice President. In any case, all that was visible of him was his bald head. No shoulders or hands, not even a neck. Floating over his seat, Jaspersen gave the impression of being an animated toy balloon.

“What’s the matter? No hello for me, your holiness?”

“Hello, Myr Jaspersen,” Meewee said. “Nice of your proxy to join us.”

Jaspersen cackled his appreciation. The very sight of him, or his improbable proxy, strained Meewee’s tolerance to its breaking point. Jaspersen was a singularly ugly toy balloon, with a lumpy skull; a too-large, always-leering mouth; and insolent, droopy eyelids. He was a disturbing caricature of a man. He was what a demon might look like without makeup.

Adam Gest, on the other hand, was preternaturally handsome. The owner of Aria Yachts and the shipyards at Mezzoluna and Trailing Earth, where the Oships were being constructed, Gest had deep, dark eyes and long lashes, curly brown hair, pearly teeth, and a pretty mouth that was forever set in a smile. If anyone had the wherewithal to sabotage Eleanor’s space yacht, it was Gest, whose company had built it. Several times in the last few months, Meewee had had to curb an impulse to sic Arrow on the man and his business. Surely, the evidence of Eleanor’s destruction was buried somewhere in Gest’s files. But Arrow was a tricky investigator to control; in uncovering Gest’s complicity, it was liable to inadvertently cripple the GEP shipyards, or cause some other world-class disaster. Still, he yearned to someday confront Gest’s pretty face with an arrest warrant.

The third villain was Byron Fagan — Dr. Fagan — the owner of the bastion of aff mollycoddling, Roosevelt Clinic, where Fagan’s zombied mentar, Concierge, had almost succeeded in murdering Eleanor’s daughter. Fagan was a tall man, towering a good meter over Meewee. He was pleasant enough, until you contradicted him. Then he treated you like an errant employee. Meewee felt physically affronted by the man, even via holopresence.

The rest of the board members projected into place, either by proxy or holopresence: Trina Warbeloo, board secretary; Zoranna Alblaitor, Andrea Tiekel, and the others. Only twelve of the thirteen votes were represented. Jerry Chapwoman had recently resigned and the board was still interviewing replacement candidates. Meanwhile, Meewee represented both Heliostream and Starke Enterprises and had two votes. Cabinet took up its usual observer position at the foot of the table but didn’t say anything.

After Andrea’s recent bid to purchase Heliostream, Meewee wasn’t so sure where her loyalties lay. He watched her for clues. She did seem unusually chummy with the Gang of Three, but she greeted Meewee warmly as well.

After the board worked through old business, the first item of new business was a motion by Jaspersen: “I move that we add eight little words to our mission statement, to read: ‘The GEP shall resettle humans outside Sol System in exchange for enforceable title and user rights to real estate on Earth, and to pursue space-based for-profit industries.’ ”

Fagan seconded, and Meewee, as board chair, reluctantly opened the floor for discussion. Jaspersen jumped in immediately. “Before you bitch and moan about how this will distract us from our primary mission,” Jaspersen’s balloon told him, “let me assure you that the opposite is true. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Chinas have recently announced their own extensive Near-Earth colonization and solar harvester programs. They got fed up with waiting for us to license them our technology. Practically speaking, it’ll take them ten years or so to catch up. That gives us a decade-long window of opportunity to actually see some profit from all our hard work over the last dozen years. Let me remind you, Eleanor Starke always promised us some fair return for our participation. And believe me, there’s a pent-up demand for high-quality inner-system space habitation systems. With the revenue we generate, we will double or triple our shipbuilding capacity. Thus, the extra-system colonization, which is all you ever think about, your highness, would not be harmed in the least by our enterprise. We might actually increase it.”

Meewee shook his head and said, “You are the last person I would expect to be quoting the murdered and absent Myr Starke to me.”

But Jaspersen’s proxy ignored him and addressed the others around the table. “Adam will now show us how it works.”

Everyone turned to Gest, whose response from his office at Mezzoluna involved a round-trip transmission lag of about a second. Yet before he could answer, Meewee said, “You can’t change bylaws, let alone the consortium mission statement, on a procedural vote. You all know that. You need a supermajority.”

But when Gest lurched into speech, everyone around the table hushed Meewee. “Thank you, Saul,” Gest began. At the same moment, a scale model of an Oship appeared floating over the conference table. “Here’s one of our colony ships. In fact, I see that it’s the Chernobyl.” The ship’s name was stenciled in Roman as well as Cyrillic script on the revolving habitation drums. “Its structure is basically a tandem hoop frame with thirty-two hab drums strung on each hoop. Except for stabilizing rockets, it has no propulsion of its own. Instead, an electromagnetic torus centered in the hub acts as a target for particle beams supplied to it by Heliostream.” As Gest spoke from Mezzoluna, the model over their heads began to change. The ordinarily invisible torus target in the ship’s donut hole glowed red. “Most of the energy the torus intercepts is turned into motive force, the rest is used for life support. Our first refinement would be to tune the torus for micro wave reception instead of particle beam.” The torus glow changed from red to green. “What’s more, only the outer, sunward ship in a roll of Oships needs to have a torus field at all, which will lead to a great cost savings.” As he spoke, more Oships appeared and stacked up against the first like a roll of candy. Their hab drums were all steadily rolling, generating gravity for their inhabitants. From the hoop frames there blossomed solar collectors and dishes and targets of one sort or another. They looked like sprouting leaves and flowers. The evolving model was mesmerizing.

“The typical parked space arcology will house ten to fifteen million persons,” Gest went on. “We already have in hand tentative orders for over a hundred arcologies.”

Half a light-second away, Adam Gest paused to look around the table at the individual board members, stopping at Meewee. “About now,” he said, “someone is bound to ask, But what about resources? Won’t we be robbing our extra-solar ships to do this additional work? My answer is no. As for raw materials, we already have an exceptionally rich stockpile of nickel/iron asteroids at Trailing Earth, and many more en route from the Kuiper Belt. Chapwoman Extrusion, which Trina has purchased, will be able to supply us the extra construction extruders. My yards are infinitely expandable, and increasing the number of my construction ’beitors will prove to be no problem. We’ll have to talk to whoever buys Chapwoman’s Exotic Fields about retuning the toruses. And the last time I checked, Heliostream is able to supply us with all the micro wave energy we could possibly need. Thus, we already have the extra capacity in place.”

When Gest seemed finished speaking, Zoranna Alblaitor, who had been waiting impatiently, spoke up. “Gest has covered material, facilities, and energy, but what about labor? Applied People would have to start whole new batch lots of jacks and johns to meet the increased demand. We’re talking years of maturation and training, and then what? When the Chinas come online, and demand for our space habitats drop, what do I do with all the surplus iterants?”

Meewee nodded enthusiastically. “I agree. There’s more to this proposal than simply rounding up more asteroids. What about tenants? Wouldn’t we be robbing from our own pool of potential colonists? Why should anyone spend a thousand years traveling to Ursus Majoris when they can hop to a colony at Leading Mars instead? No, in my opinion, this is an unnecessary diversion of our energies and a bad idea. Our mission is not an easy one, my friends, and this space condo fantasy is just that, a fantasy. It is not GEP’s mission to fill the inner system with your consumers, no matter how profitable. No thank you.”

When the debate ended and the ballot was counted, the vote fell along predictable lines. With eight for and three opposed, the final decision fell to Andrea Tiekel, as Meewee knew it would. So it was with heart-thudding relief that she killed the amendment.

Jaspersen seemed disappointed, but not much. His toy head bobbed in Andrea’s direction. “Nice to see where you stand on this, my dear.”

The young woman laughed. “I’m just getting used to this consortium the way it is, Saul. I don’t think I’m ready to let anyone change it into something else yet.”

Plan A

Ellen refused to sit in either Georgine’s or June’s lap. She insisted on sitting by her own real self, propped up in a chair, to receive her realperson guests. “Oliver TUG,” she said merrily to the gargantuan man that Lyra escorted into the Map Room. “A pleasure to see you after all this time. And who is this youngster you’ve brought with you?”

“I’m no youngster, Myr Starke,” said the smaller TUG. “I’m Veronica TUG. We’ve met on a number of occasions.”

Ellen did a double take but recovered quickly and quipped, “Well, Veronica, it would appear that both of us have shed a few dress sizes.” That brought appreciative chuckles from the TUGs, who were offered seats and refreshments.

ANDREA, DEAR, WAKE up, E-P said. We’ll want to watch this.

Andrea struggled to surface from unrefreshing sleep in her tank. A frame opened in front of her depicting a monstrous baby and equally monstrous guests.

“TO WHAT DO I owe this visit?” Ellen said. “I must tell you that I’m leaving my production company and may have less need for your, ah, specialized services in the future.”

Oliver, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips, cleared his throat. “First, we would like to offer our sympathy on behalf of Charter TUG for the loss of your mother.”

“My mother?” The word “mother” hung in the air like a hazard sign. Ellen’s ungainly head wobbled a little, and Georgine and June, seated on either side of her, held their breath. Georgine patted her pockets for the clicker, but Ellen went on, “Thank you. My mother is dead.”

“Yes,” Oliver continued, “and you nearly ended up that way yourself.” He said this in a leading way, but Ellen seemed dense to his meaning, so he spoke more plainly. “Wee Hunk hired us to perform a special service in that regard, and we have come today to collect our payment. We are sorry for the loss of your mentar as well as your mother, and we hesitated contacting you sooner.”

“My Wee Hunk is dead.”

“We know, and we are sorry,” Oliver said, shaking his head in sympathy. “Perhaps we should postpone this reckoning up until a later time.”

“No. Not at all,” Ellen said. “Tell me how much it is, and Lyra will make a transfer.”

“It’s a rather steep amount, myr, because of the danger involved and the costly equipment confiscated or destroyed, not to mention the greasing of many hands.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred fifty thousand UDC.”

This gave pause even to the lifelong aff, but she said, “You weren’t kidding, Oliver; that is steep. Tell me, what service cost me that much?”

Oliver seemed uncomfortable and glanced at the ceiling.

“Don’t worry about eavesdroppers, Oliver. This whole house has the rating of a good quiet room. You can talk freely here.”

Oliver remained doubtful, but he continued. “We were instrumental in extracting your head from that house in Decatur, the Sitrun house.”

“I thought the Homeland Command was responsible for that? That’s what my people told me.”

“The hommers were there too, but they and you would have been cooked without us. With the number of media bees present, it shouldn’t be hard for you to verify this.”

“I see,” the adult head said, mulling it over. “I’ll have Lyra look into it. I have no doubt it’ll be as you say.”

“Thank you. We have always appreciated your fairness, Myr Starke.”

“You’re welcome. Expect to hear from us in a few days.” Ellen spoke with a meeting-closing finality, but the TUGs did not rise to leave. “Was there something else?”

“Yes, myr,” Veronica said. “We know that a quarter-million yoodies is a lot even for someone of your means, and we might be willing to take payment in trade.”

“Go on,” Ellen said, a note of caution creeping into her voice.

“In exchange for a waiver, we’d be willing to apply the full amount toward the purchase of an Oship. Oship 67, to be specific.”

“But you don’t need me for that. Talk to the GEP; I’m sure they can accommodate you.”

“We have spoken to them, myr. They insist that the only acceptable payment for shares to an Oship is the title to land. Our membership wants to expand into space, but not at the expense of its holdings on Earth. We’d rather purchase a ship outright, for cash.”

“But you must understand that land acquisition is the GEP’s sole reason for existing. It doesn’t ‘sell’ ships. It only trades them for land.”

“Thus the waiver.”

“I see,” Ellen said. “I don’t know if I can help you. The GEP is a consortium of thirteen partners, and I cannot dictate conditions to the others.” She smiled mischievously and added, “Except that occasionally I do. Maybe we can help each other. I have a counterproposal for you.”

Oliver said, “We’re listening.”

“Not here. What I have to propose is too sensitive even for a quiet room. A null room would be best, except that I can’t manage to enter one yet in my current condition. Instead, let’s cast proxies and put them into a secure scape.”

The TUGs agreed, and Lyra cast proxies of them, and after testing them for faults, Ellen inserted the datapins into a sequestered player. Then, while they waited for their proxies to meet, arbeitors served another round of refreshments.

Half a continent away, Andrea in her tank asked, What do you make of all that?

We are unsure, E-P said. Ellen Starke’s personality is still too unstable for us to model. Let us ask you the same question. What do you make of it?

Andrea let her impressions wash over her like the bubbly green syrup in her tank. Only a few days ago Starke was convinced that her mother was still alive. Now she admits she is dead. Even with the Protatter drug, that’s a swift conversion. She’s used her current guests for extra-legal tasks in the past. She trusts their discretion. It’s obvious she has a dirty deed for them to perform, but what exactly it is, I don’t know.

TUG PROXIES TENDED to include everything from the waist up and thus they appeared nearly as gargantuan as their originals. Ellen used her adult sim for her proxy, and only its head, shoulders, and one free-floating unattached hand. The proxies faced each other, drifting in an empty space with no up or down.

What is this service that’s worth a waiver, Myr Starke? Oliver-by-proxy asked.

Without preamble, Ellen’s proxy said, I want you to find my mother’s murderers. And after you find them, I want you to destroy them.

The TUG proxies were silent for a long while.

Do you need time to discuss this between yourselves?

No, that’s not necessary, Oliver-by-proxy replied. I am authorized to speak for the charter in matters like this. I’m not sure what has given you the impression that we kill for hire, but even if we did, your request is not that simple. Especially for the class of target you’re talking about. Whoever was responsible for the crash of the Songbird, the murder of Eleanor Starke, and your kidnapping is not likely to be a street thug. You’re talking about a class of bad guy that’s way out of our league. We are not specialists in this area. Then there are the mentars to deal with. Whoever did your mother no doubt has a mentar watching their back. You’d need your own mentar to deal with it, and as you may know, Charter TUG has never sponsored a mentar, so we are lacking in that area as well.

I see, Ellen said. Perhaps, then, you could point me toward an appropriate specialist.

Oliver’s proxy shook its head. That alone would make us accomplices. In point of fact, we recommend that you discontinue your planning along this path, for we are already too closely tied to you, for the service at the Sitrun house and services to Burning Daylight, and any investigation of you will bring the HomCom to our door as well. Even our open visit with you today at your home implicates us in whatever you’re planning.

You don’t seem to understand, Ellen insisted. Someone murdered my mother, and I must make them pay.

Veronica-by-proxy said, I can appreciate your feelings, Myr Starke, but perhaps you will take some advice from people who know something about exacting payment. Murder at the level of Eleanor Starke will have been ordered for practical purposes: a business decision, a power struggle, an ideological disagreement. Don’t think of the killer as an individual but rather as a team. Your natural impulse is to want to kill the whole team, but you can never get them all, and all you accomplish is starting a death spiral of attacks and counterattacks.

It’s much better to take a longer view. Find anonymous ways to hurt the entire team. Cripple them in ways that matter to them. There’s lots of ways to play dirty that are less extreme than murder, a lot safer for you, and more effective in the long run. In that area our charter excels, and we may be of service to you.

But Ellen’s proxy wasn’t convinced. If you do this for me, find my mother’s murderers and kill them, kill as many of them as you can, I won’t sell you an Oship, I’ll give you one.

IN THE MAP Room, the player chimed. Ellen removed the datapins and held them up to the light in her unsteady hand. The paste bulbs were blackened — nuked. “I guess you didn’t like my proposition,” Ellen said. “Too bad.”

IN THEIR CAR, Oliver said, “I wonder what that was all about. Something we wouldn’t touch. And how freakish she looks with that head. Worse than you.”

Veronica let that pass. She was having a hard time getting comfortable in her car seat. She reached around and opened a special flap in the rear of her jumpsuit to let her tail out.

“Anyway,” Oliver concluded, “so much for Plan A. On to Plan B.”

Veronica jabbed her elbow in his ribs. How is our little Plan B. coming along? Did it pass the isolation test?

Yes, forty-eight hours of solitary confinement. Most of the batch survived. We’re interacting with them this week before putting them in for seventy-two.

You look doubtful.

Oliver sighed. We’ve never raised a mentar before, and we don’t know what to expect. Even so, there’s something weird about these.

In what way?

They’re crazier than any mentar I’ve ever met.

Bait and Switch

As the Starke limo pulled into the station adjoining the John P. Walters National Detention Center, Mary put the finishing touches to her costume. She wore a baggy pantsuit of a medicine-pink color that few, if any, evangelines would dream of wearing. But it was exactly what she’d asked Lyra to make for her.

The limo came to a whispery stop on the brightly lit platform. Clouds of media bees awaited her on the other side of the gull-wing door. She let them get a good look at her through the glass, then put on her medicine-pink hat and lowered its veil to completely cover her face. Leaving the car, she strode purposefully to the NDC entrance tunnel. The flying mechs mobbed her along the way, but they were constrained to halt at the tunnel entrance. Mary continued on through to the scanway and into Wait Here Hall.

Wait Here Hall was a hushed, cavernous chamber where thousands of visitors languished on hard, plastic benches. This being Mary’s eighteenth (and final!) visit, she headed by habit to the FDO gate, but Lyra said, Mary, you’re going the wrong way. Mary changed course to Central Processing, where NO ENTRY barriers blocked the entrance. She looked around for a vacant seat. On the nearest benches, people watched her with jurylike curiosity. She turned her back to them.

“How much longer?”

Patience, Mary. He’s almost finished.

“Are Cyndee and Larry here yet?”

They’re a few minutes out.

Mary paced while she waited. After half an hour or so, a russ walked through the holo barrier, but it wasn’t Fred. The russ wore a guard uniform, and he did a double take when he saw Mary. Despite her veil and baggy pink clothes, he made her for an evangeline, but he continued on without acknowledging her.

A little while later, Lyra said, Now, Mary, and Mary hurried to the barrier. The russ who emerged wore an olive-drab jumpsuit and carried a duffel bag under his arm. He halted momentarily, as though stunned by the size and noise and dangers of such a public space. Then he noticed Mary standing next to the barrier and he looked even more stunned. When Mary went over to him, he opened his arms, dropping the duffel, and without a word gave her a tentative hug. Then he picked up his bag and set off across the hall.

Mary hastened to follow. They walked to the exit tunnel, and when they were hidden from view of both the hall and the tube station, Fred halted and drew her to him. He lifted the veil and looked into her startled face.

“Mary, what is all this?”

“Hello, Fred. Nice to see you too.”

“Why are you in this — disguise? Are you ashamed of being with me?”

“Oh, Fred, you have it so wrong. I’m in costume because it’s really bad out there. I have some help coming. We should wait here for them.”

Fred pursed his lips and tried to make sense of it. “We’ll be fine,” he said. He took her arm and escorted her down the tunnel. When they rounded a bend, he stopped short. In the tube station beyond the tunnel exit was a living rampart of tiny flying mechs — witness bees, public bees, media bees — several times more than when Mary had arrived. They swirled and churned in competition for cam position, and the drone of their wings surged when Fred came into view.

Fred’s jaw dropped. Grimly he said, “I’ll go first. Do you know which direction the trains are? I’ll go first, and you follow close.”

“No, Fred!” Mary said, pulling him back. “Look at me!” He let her pull him back around the bend. “I have everything under control. Will you please let me take the lead for once? Please?”

Fred looked confused. “What do you want of me, Mary?”

A proper hello, she thought. A kiss would be nice. But instead she said, “We have a diversion, Fred.”

“We who?”

Right on cue, Larry approached them from the Wait Here end of the tunnel, and although he wasn’t wearing a uniform, Fred made him for a guard. “Can I help you, brother?” Fred snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t live here anymore.”

The russ hesitated, and Mary said, “Fred, this is Larry. He’s a friend. He’s Cyndee’s husband. You remember Cyndee; she was at the clinic with me.”

Fred nodded curtly to the other man. “Glad to meet you, Londenstane,” Larry said and held out his hand. When Fred didn’t respond in kind, Larry handed him a tote bag. “The plan is for you to put this on.”

Fred opened the bag and saw what looked like a security uniform. He snapped the bag shut and said, “In case you’re ignorant, brother, it’s a felony to impersonate an officer. I’m not even out of this hellhole yet, and you want me to commit a felony?”

“Whoa, pard. Take a look.” Larry took the tote bag and pulled the suit out. It wasn’t a guard’s jumpsuit after all, but a security uniform for a private house hold. It resembled an NDC guard’s uniform only in its cut and color.

Fred looked at it, sighed, and began to unfasten his own jumpsuit, but Larry told him the uniform was roomy enough to pull over the clothes he had on. Fred dressed quickly, and Larry looked him over and said, “Such a deal.”

The remark set Fred off again. “You obviously don’t want to be doing this, brother. So, what gives? How much is my wife paying you?”

Larry made a familiar russ grin of forbearance. “You get three strikes, brother, because of the extremity of your situation, and that there was strike two. For your information, I volunteered for this op. I’m as worried about the clone fatigue as the next guy, but I’m also married to a ’leen, and what you and Mary and Georgine and the others did for the whole lot of ’em is nothing short of miraculous. Cyndee is pulling her own weight for the first time since we’ve been married. And that’s done wonders for her, for the both of us. I think you can appreciate what I mean. You could say I owe you, Londenstane, so get over your freaking self.”

The two russes regarded each other soberly, and Larry said, “Are we good now, Londenstane? There’s a visor cap in your utility pocket.” Larry was already wearing an olive-drab jumpsuit like the one that Fred had been released in and didn’t need to change.

Fred turned to Mary and said, “What now?” Another woman had joined them, a tall free-ranger. Fred looked from one woman to the other and saw that it wasn’t Mary in the pink outfit anymore, but a strange evangeline, Cyndee presumably.

The taller woman next to her wore expensive-looking town togs and veiled hat. She modeled her outfit for him and said, “Are we ready, driver?” It was Mary!

Cyndee, thoroughly pink, lowered her own veil and took Larry’s arm. They’d never fool the nitwork, but they didn’t need to.

“I’m ready,” Fred said, “but I think this is crazy and unnecessary.”

They walked to the bend of the tunnel where Mary and Cyndee hugged each other, and Fred and Larry finally shook hands. “Best of luck, Londenstane,” Larry said, putting on a pair of mirrorshades. And then they were off, the false Fred and Mary, jogging down the tunnel, holding hands. When they reached the media maelstrom, they ducked their heads and charged into it shouting, “Desist, desist.” They veered left, toward the bead train platforms, and the whole cloud of mechs followed. All but a few stragglers.

“Let me go first,” Mary said and walked briskly to the entrance in her elevated shoes. “I have a private car in VIP parking.” When she entered the station, the remaining bees ignored her. Fred entered right behind her and followed her across the empty platform. They left the public area and entered the VIP platform where sleek cars waited on injection tracks, most of them guarded by private security russes, jerrys, and belindas. No one gave the aff or her bodyguard a second glance.

Mary and Fred stopped at one of the cars, a sleek, nano-black limo, a Marbech Tourister. Fred’s attention snagged on the small emblem emblazoned on its door — Starke Enterprises.

“It’s just a car, Fred,” Mary said, opening the gull wing. She tried to take his arm, but he wouldn’t be led any farther. Instead, he opened his duffel bag and began to fumble through it, searching for something.

“The quartermaster issued me” — he said and dumped the contents of the bag on the platform floor — “fare back to Chicago.” He rifled through his things and found the paper medallion. He waved it angrily in front of Mary’s face. “I think I’ll take a public train.”

“You can’t, Fred. They’ll eat you alive.”

He stooped to gather his things and jam them back into the duffel. “You go on ahead, Mary, in your limo. I’ll meet you at the APRT.”

The media bees, meanwhile, were returning to the Wait Here tunnel where they circled in ever-widening orbits. Some of them ventured toward the VIP parking. Suddenly, there was a desperate shriek at the far end of the station, followed by the unmistakable whine of small-arms fire. The security guards at the private cars all perked up, and the media bees raced off in the direction of the commotion.

“Please, Fred,” Mary said, trying to pull him into the Starke car, “I don’t have many more tricks left to play here. Why don’t we just drive into Provo and rent our own car there? How does that sound?”

But Fred had made up his mind. He removed his visor cap, threw back his shoulders, and marched in the direction of the public platforms. He didn’t get far before a media bee discovered him and projected a small frame in his path with a talking head who said, “Is it true, Myr Londenstane, your release from prison was purchased by unknown benefactors?”

Fred had been wondering that himself, but he never slowed down. “Get out of my way,” he growled. When the bee persisted in blocking him, he said, “Desist!” and the mech complied, closing its frame and flying outside his privacy zone.

But ten more talking heads replaced it and peppered him with questions: Did Applied People collude with you in infiltrating the clinic? Have you talked to officer Dell since you strangled him? Where did you acquire the black market identikit? Is it true you were on the Starke payroll during the twenty-first century?

“Desist! Desist!” Fred shouted and tried to bat the mechs out of the air with his duffel. They retreated from his privacy zone, but the main body of bees had returned, and everywhere Fred turned, they blocked his way and roared questions at him. A miniature diorama opened at his feet displaying a clearing in a wooded area where two men struggled in desperate combat. One of the figures was a pike wearing a Roosevelt Clinic uniform and the other was a russ. The ground around them was littered with blasted splinters of tree branches. The russ knocked the pike down and straddled him, grabbing up a sharp stick and jamming it into his ear. The pike screamed and stopped struggling, but the russ only shoved the stick in deeper. He rocked back and forth against the fallen man, his crotch bulging with excitement.

“No!” Fred shouted over the din. “That’s a lie! It wasn’t like that at all!” He covered his head with his arms, but the bees pressed closer, and a new picture opened. In it Fred was beating a fallen russ with a baton. Again and again he struck him, though his brother made no effort to defend himself. Fred pummeled his head, his back, his ribs, until he swung so hard the carbon fiber club splintered, something impossible in real life. “Stop that!” Fred cried. “Stop!”

“Desist!” Mary shouted. She was at Fred’s side. “Desist, desist, desist!” she kept shouting until she had cleared a little bubble of free space around them. Then she took Fred’s hand and led him through the melee back to the limo. “Desist! Desist!” But when they reached the car, a veil of bees hung between them and the door and stubbornly and illegally ignored her demand to move.

Suddenly the tiny mechs began to drop from the air like pebbles. They fell in waves all around the hapless couple and beat their wings spastically against the concrete floor. When the way was clear, the limo door gulled open, and Mary urged Fred inside. The jewel-like fallen mechs crunched under their feet with every step. At first Mary was appalled — the cost! — but she remembered who she was, Mary Skarland, the evangeline, and she giddily ground a fortune of hardware under her elevated heels.

More mechs were arriving when Fred and Mary entered the limo, and Mary ordered the door to shut. It lowered but did not shut completely until a bluish blur flew inside. It was a solitary bee, larger than most; it alighted on Mary’s shoulder and crawled under the lapel of her suit.

Fred said nothing, only looked around the interior of the limo: five pods, each a safe harbor for two people, each seat an overstuffed lap of luxury. He fell into the nearest one and allowed the harness to snake over his shoulders and around his waist. It buckled with a decisive snap.

Mary took the seat next to his in the same pod, and when the car released its brakes and began to roll to the injection ramp, she said, “We’ll go to Provo for our own car.”

“No, don’t bother,” Fred said, all the fight gone out of him. “Like you said, it’s just a car.” To the car he said, “Chicago, APRT 7.” Mary bit her lip.

The car rolled down the ramp. It descended several levels to the transcontinental grid, gaining speed, and suddenly they were pressed against their seatbacks as they were shot into the pneumatic stream. The tube walls outside their windows blurred into a smooth umber streak before dimming to blackness.

As gently as she could, Mary said, “You know, Fred, since neither of us were employed by Applied People anymore, they asked me to move out of the APRT.”

He turned to her, his outrage rekindled. “They fired you because of me? They put you out on the street? Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“No, Fred, it’s nothing like that. I wanted to quit. I don’t have to work anymore, remember? I own a hollyholo character, a unit of the Leena line. I have my own independent income, I told you about that. I quit Applied People on my own.”

He seemed confused. “Yes, I remember about the Leena, but did you tell me about quitting Applied People? About moving out of the APRT?”

She nodded.

“But you work for Ellen Starke, don’t you? You live there now and borrow her limo whenever you like?” He spoke with strained calm, as though asking her if she had a lover.

She could tell how much he wanted to be told he was wrong, but lying would gain them nothing. Still, it was too soon to have this conversation. “We’ll have plenty of time to decide where and how we’ll live, Fred. For the next few days, why don’t we just stay in a hotel.”

She could see how ready he was to fight — he must have thought she was taking him to Starke Manse. Fortunately, Lyra piped up and said, We’ve reserved you a suite at Cass Tower.

“Why don’t we stay in Cass Tower, Fred? I’ve reserved a suite there.”

He nodded but wasn’t able to let it drop completely. “Cass Tower? Are you an aff then?”

She chuckled. “You don’t have to be an aff to stay a few nights at Cass Tower.” But, in fact, you did. Not even her hollyholo’s sizable income would afford that address for long. “You don’t mind?” she said. “Just until the dust settles?”

“What’s to mind?” he said, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. “Living like an aff.”

WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Cass Tower, the limo bypassed the public depot and entered a lift stack that took them directly to their floor. Their suite was on the 630th floor, but its tony altitude was offset by the fact that it was far from any exterior wall, just like their old APRT efficiency. But when they entered and Mary saw how nice it was, she thought it would do.

Their things, which Georgine had sent over, were arranged on shelves and in closets. There was no kitchen but a recessed nook with a kulinmate and wet bar. Fred walked around the living room, taking it all in. He opened bathroom drawers and seemed pleased to recognize things inside. In a bedroom closet he found his favorite bathrobe. The faithful old slipper puppy roused itself to drag out his felt moccasins. He bent down and patted the slipper puppy on its head and was actually grinning when he closed the closet door. He went back to the bathroom and called up archival images of himself in the mirror. They were all there. “I’m still handsome,” he called out to her. Finally, Fred wandered to a stout-looking door on a wall of the main room. “Another closet?”

“I don’t think so,” Mary said.

The door was sealed like an airlock hatch and seemed much too heavy-duty for what he found inside. “A sauna?”

“Look closer.”

Fred climbed into the sauna, fully clothed, and sat on a bench to ponder what was clearly a second hatch on the inner wall. Mary came in and sat opposite him. After a while Fred said, “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Think we’ll be safe from the nasty old nitwork in there?” She expected him to laugh and say yes. But he took her question seriously.

“I think so, Mary,” he said at last. “For a while at least.”

“Then we should probably use it as soon as possible, don’t you agree?” Mary pulled off her shoes and unfastened her blouse.

Fred watched with growing interest.

They set the sauna controls and climbed out. They helped each other undress, Fred grinning like an idiot. The blue bee was still under her jacket lapel. “Your little chaperone will have to wait out here,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

They each drank a liter of expressing visola before entering the sauna and sealing the outer hatch. They were naked, and they brought nothing in with them. The floor started to hum beneath their feet as motors and pumps came to life. A bluish fog entered through ceiling ports and grew so thick in the tiny space that for a little while they couldn’t see each other. And then the itching began. At first, only Mary’s arms itched, and she was able to keep herself from scratching. Then there was a fizz up her nose that made her snort and pinch her nostrils. Then the skin at her ankles began to itch very aggressively, and she fought to keep from clawing at herself.

Fred said, “The nits?”

“I hate this part.”

“It shouldn’t last much longer.” Fred didn’t appear uncomfortable at all, which wasn’t fair.

Mary remained strong for as long as she could, and when her scalp erupted in flames and an army of ants marched up her legs, Fred leaned over and grabbed her hands. “Just a little,” she pleaded, but he held her until the nits had worked themselves out of her skin. Then he kissed her hands and let them go. He ladled water on the furnace rocks, which hissed and billowed steam.

“A good idea combining a null lock with a sauna,” he said. “Sweat all the crap out of you.”

He was right, and they spent a half hour in the heat as the in-lock completed its cycle. At last, a draft of cool, purified air rushed in, and the inner hatch to the null suite unbolted with a clank.

Mary was delighted to discover that the null suite was not a cramped space with only a cot and port-a-potty but a full mini-suite in its own right. Full kulinmate, bath, closets, a resident arbeitor and house cleaning scuppers, and, dominating the main room, a bed large enough to stretch out in.

Fred opened cupboards and the oversized refrigerator. “We have provisions for a month,” he said, amazed. He took out a couple of liter bottles of Orange Flush and opened one for her. “First things first.”

They found bathrobes, and they toured the suite as they forced down the sweet diuretic concoction. Fred’s erection hadn’t flagged since Mary removed her shoes in the sauna, and she allowed herself to feel optimistic.

While they were waiting for the effects of the Orange Flush to kick in, they took a shower together. They soaped each other and rinsed away all the tiny broken machinery littering their skin. Then they had a picnic on the bed in their bathrobes. They drank liters of ’Lyte and dashed to the toilet every few minutes. After an hour or so of this, their urine ran clear and the urgency subsided. They each took a memorable dump, like quicksilver sausages. Finally, with their bodies purged inside and out, their thirst and hunger satisfied, there was only one urge left to appease.

Mary said, “Are the nits watching us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are we completely, absolutely alone?”

He opened her robe and ravaged her with his gaze. “Thank you, Mary, for this gift.”

Skin

For all the pent-up desire, the forced separation, the long tube ride from the prison, the nudist intimacy of the sauna, and especially the utter privacy of the null suite, their first intercourse was brief and to the point. Merely a down payment on later, more tender lovemaking. And so it was, with full belly and empty bladder, Fred plowed into Mary like a moose through a windshield.

Soon thereafter, they fell asleep under a silken cover in the middle of the bed in the unwatched room. They both stirred continuously throughout the night and got no rest at all. Never once did their bodies lose contact with each other. They lay rump to rump or knee to knee. Sometimes in a full body spoon. Sometimes by wisps of hair, but always in contact. Their unsleeping skin demanded it.

MARY STIRRED SUDDENLY, crying “Oomph!” The force of her awakening was transmitted through her knees directly to Fred, who sat up and said, “Uhh?”

“Nothing,” Mary whispered. “A dream. Go back to sleep.”

He lay down. A dream. The room was so quiet his ears rang. “Tell me,” he said. When she didn’t, he slithered closer and wrapped himself around her. “The first dream in an unfamiliar bed is important,” he quoted her from long ago. “Tell me.”

She snuggled in his big, familiar arms. “I know you’re humoring me. You don’t give a rat’s ass for dreams.”

“Not true,” he yawned.

“Liar!” But after a little while, she said, “It was one of those anxiety dreams where you’re running as fast as you can, but you don’t seem to be getting anywhere, and you’re late. Horribly, horribly late.”

The floor provided the room a low-lumen glow; otherwise, it was darker than his cell. He said, “You’re probably stressed out because of me.”

“Because of all the bees,” she replied, and that was probably most of it. But in the dream she had been running up steps, wide, shiny, marbelite steps like in a museum or a court house. Up, up, unable to catch her breath.

“Well, we’re safe now,” Fred said and squeezed her. What she said about the rat’s ass was true, but he knew that you ignored an evangeline’s dreams at your own peril. This one seemed innocuous enough, and he was asleep before he knew it and having a dream of his own. A big dream. He awoke with a start. The ceiling was dawning, and everything in the room appeared in shades of gray, except the black pinpoints of her eyes.

“You were dreaming,” she said.

“Was not.”

Mary tsk-tsked. “Fred Londenstane, please remember who you’re talking to.”

Fred scooped her up and drew her to him. “Now I remember,” he said and stole a kiss, but she would not be distracted. “All right, all right. It was only an anxiety dream, like yours.”

“My dream was only an anxiety dream?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“How should I know?” he said, using the russ’s time-worn catchall excuse. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Please.”

Fred related a long, nonsensical dream of flight and fight that culminated in a pitched battle against enemy forces that threatened to overwhelm the city. He provided the last defense, in a hotel ballroom, which he held with the help of gunnery bots. “What city, I don’t know. My city, our city; that was the general feeling. I was single-handedly stemming the sure destruction of our entire city. I was under great strain.” He laughed self-consciously. “A typical russ dream, I suppose.”

“I disagree,” Mary said. “Russes are heroes in their waking lives. They have no need to dream about heroism when they’re asleep. What happened next?”

Fred looked about the dawning room and squeezed her hand. “This is where it gets weird. So there I am, holding back total destruction when I hear a voice — I’m thinking it’s your voice — from the next room calling for me to come quick. And I yell back, ‘In a minute, honey. I’m busy.’ ”

“Those exact words?”

“I don’t know. That was the meaning, like I’m busy shaving or something routine. But she calls out again, and this time she says, ‘Father, I need you!’ ”

“What?”

“It was our daughter.”

“What do you mean our daughter? Yours and mine?”

Fred nodded.

“Go on.”

“So I hand off the gunneries to my sidekick and run into the room. She’s lying in a pool of her own blood. She’s an adult woman, and she looks like what the daughter of a russ and ’leen might look like, if clones had children. Her uniform is torn, and there’s a big ugly gash in her side. She says, ‘This is real, Father. I need your help, or I will surely die.’ ”

“Wait a minute. Her uniform?”

“She’s a lieutenant, but not in my army. In my enemy’s army. So, I’m faced with the dilemma: to save our city or save my enemy daughter.”

By then it was full morning in the null room, and Mary’s gaze was locked on his. “What did you decide?”

“I woke up.”

“Liar! Coward! Tell me.”

“Honest, I don’t know. I woke up.”

They lay in each other’s arms, thinking about their dreams, unable to return to sleep. They listened to music for a while. Then they made love again. Compared to the first collision, this was a stroll down a familiar lane. They dallied at favorite places along the way, pausing in mid-intercourse for more discussion — about how much they missed each other, about their dreams, about the obvious fact that only people with a low drive for self-procreation were selected to start iterant germlines. They ground their hips against each other, generating only minimal heat to maintain a slow burn for hours, and in this manner they occupied the morning.

DURING THE NEXT couple of days, they napped, made love, watched vids from the suite’s extensive library, played games, and talked. Mary secretly worried about Ellen. Had her unplanned absence had any negative consequences? Fred made a secret list of things to do when they got out of the suite. At the top of the list was finding a place for them to live.

During their third evening, they lay in bed and watched colorful arabesques of light drift across the room. Without discussing it, they agreed to leave the suite the following morning. Finally, when they could avoid it no longer, they discussed Ellen Starke.

“Our confidentiality oaths never expire,” Fred said to start it off, “not even when we’re no longer employed by Applied People and not even in a null suite.”

“I know,” Mary replied. “That’s why I asked Ellen to grant us a personal waiver. It’s on file at Applied People. We are free to talk to each other whenever we want about anything we want regarding the Starkes.”

Fred grunted acknowledgment.

“All right, Fred,” Mary said, “I’ll go first. From what Ellen told me, I know that you worked several months for the Starkes when Ellen was a baby and her stepfather, Samson Harger, was seared. Of course she doesn’t remember it, but family legend says you were especially compassionate to Samson and helped him get used to his condition. And Cabinet says that after Eleanor was killed and while you and the Justice Department were arresting all of its mirrors and backups, that Cabinet asked you for special treatment, which you refused. Ellen and Cabinet deny any knowledge of how you acquired the false identity to break into the clinic. I assume that came from the TUGs, which is why you said you owe them a debt. How’m I doing?”

Fred grunted again.

“What I don’t understand, Fred, is why you’re so angry with them, with the Starkes, I mean. I’m the one who decided to risk my own life; they didn’t compel me. If you must blame anyone, you should blame me.”

“There’s enough blame to go around.”

The walls served up blue skies and a calm sea on which their soft raft drifted on gentle swells.

“How can I blame you?” Fred continued. “You were fighting for the survival of your entire germline, as you told me a hundred times. How can I find fault with that?”

“Well, that’s good to hear. But what about the Starkes? They’re good people. Why the grudge?”

Anger rose so quickly that Fred took several deep breaths to damp it down. “Listen,” he said as evenly as he could, “I know where we clones fit into the grand scheme of things, and I’m good with it. But the fact that I’m ‘good with it’ is only because I was bred to be compliant. I’m good with that too. Usually I enjoy my life! I was at the top of my game! I was exercising the talents I was given, and I was being recognized and rewarded for doing so. What more could any person ask for? I know that russes are bred to be protectors; it doesn’t bother me. That’s exactly what I like doing, helping people, protecting them. We’re serially loyal to our clients because it keeps us honest. Petty despots can’t get their hooks into us.

“But your Starkes are an old-fashioned dynasty. They need a palace guard made up of lifelong retainers, members of their extended service family. Their Cabinet did try to recruit me in the middle of an operation to escort it through probate. It would have meant subverting my duty to Applied People and our client, the UD Justice Department. That’s not a client you want to screw with, and I couldn’t deceive them, even if I wanted to, which I didn’t. So, in their desperation, the Starkes made a side deal with Nick, or somehow gamed the Applied People system, and arranged for you to work for Ellen, knowing that they’d get me in the bargain at no additional cost, even if it meant putting you in the line of fire, which it did. That’s what I have against them. They used me and risked your life in the process.”

“Hold on,” Mary said. “Wait a minute, mister. Are you saying it was all about you? They didn’t want me or my sisters at the clinic for our own skills, but only to entrap you?”

“I know how it sounds, Mary, but basically — yes. We’re all chess pieces for them to move or sacrifice as conditions warrant, all in service to the king, who in this case is your buddy Ellen. I risked my life and the lives of two other officers to save her head before she ever made it to the clinic. Did they tell you that? Look up the Sitrun Foundation on the WAD. Remember the canopy ceremony when I had to leave? One officer was killed and another was diced to pieces, but was that enough for them? No, they turned right around and took you too. They broke faith with me, Mary, and nearly cost me the one person I love. And once broken, trust can never be made new, no matter how much cash they throw at it.”

Mary considered what he was saying for a long while. “I don’t see it in quite those terms,” she said at last. “To my way of thinking, the Starkes offered me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to prove to the whole world that my Sisterhood mattered. I have never felt happier about myself than I do now. If at first I was a pawn, it didn’t stay that way for long. I became and I remain a player.”

“Is that why they arranged my acquittal on all counts?”

“You think the Starkes did that? Well, they didn’t. Ellen would have told me.”

“Then how do you explain it? I was looking at certain conviction.”

Mary didn’t know.

Their raft was drifting toward the shoals of an island with bird-stained bluffs. Mary said, “So what do we do now, Fred? Do I have to quit the Starkes before you’ll want to be with me?”

“I never said that.”

“Do I have to give up my Leena, and go back to work for Applied People?”

Fred had the good sense to make no reply, and Mary turned her back to him and tried to sleep.

New Kettle of Fish

Merrill Meewee addressed a meeting of prospective Oship colonists in person in Laurence, Kansas. He skipped the lunch banquet to hurry back to Starke Enterprises to make the scheduled GEP board meeting. The noontime rush was in full force and the Kansas City Slipstream station was crowded, except in certain small pockets of the platform where no one walked. They were like open meadows in a forest of people. Meewee was preoccupied with his thoughts when he absentmindedly walked through a holobarrier and across one of these meadows. Halfway across, his foot went through the marbelite floor tile up to his shin. The otherwise indestructible artificial marble had crumbled underfoot like a cookie. He stumbled but was unhurt. A few spectators paused to look at him, but no one offered assistance, except for one woman who called out, “Filter 21,” and tapped the frame of her spex.

Meewee extricated his foot from the flooring and stood a moment examining it. “Arrow, give me filter 21.” Suddenly the ruined flooring glowed deep orange. He looked around; the vacant, cordoned-off spots of terminal floor had an orangish tinge in their centers. His shoe and pant leg were stained orange. It looked like orange meant trouble.

Sure enough, when he looked up, he was surrounded by bloomjumpers arrayed in full hazmat gummysuits. “Don’t move, Myr Meewee,” one of them ordered.

THE NANOBOT ATTACK was benign. Decontamination meant sitting in a tiny plastic solo gas tent for an hour. Meanwhile, the bloomjumpers cleaned the tube station and extinguished the hot spots on the floor, including the one Meewee had broken through.

An hour was plenty of time for Meewee to ponder his situation.

he asked his mentar in Starkese

Regrettably, that was the answer Meewee had expected.

Naturally.

He settled back in his chair and considered whether or not to attend the board meeting by proxy, something he hated doing. Right outside his decon tent, it seemed, a woman said

Meewee couldn’t see who had spoken. “Tell her the time,” he said to Arrow.

“Tell who the time?”

“Hello?” Meewee said, but the woman must have been speaking to someone else and moved on. “It’s late,” he replied to no one.

THEY WERE ALREADY seated around the conference table by holo or proxy. “Good afternoon, good afternoon,” Meewee said, bustling around to the head of the table. “Sorry for my tardiness. No excuses. I was caught in a slow elevator. The dog ate my homework.”

Meewee sat and looked around the table at relaxed, happy faces, a rare sight in this room, and for a brief moment he thought it was in appreciation of his humor. But he found the real cause sitting in Jerry Chapwoman’s former chair: a rotund man with a neat little mustache and shiny black hair. The stranger lounged in the chair with his large hands clasped over his generous belly, and his expression was nothing less than merry.

“No need for apology, Merrill,” Trina Warbeloo said. “Million has been entertaining us with stories about colleagues of his on the subcontinent.”

Meewee recognized the man from his dossier. “It’s good to finally meet you, Myr Singh,” he said. On paper, at least, the man looked like he might be an acceptable replacement for Chapwoman.

“Please, call me Million.” Singh rolled forward in his seat — he was attending from his office in Mumbai — and offered Meewee a holo salute. “And the pleasure is all mine, Bishop Meewee. I am a very big admirer of yours and the noble work you have done for Birthplace International. And, of course, I am a believer in extra-solar colonization, which is why I leaped like a tiger at the opportunity to purchase Exotic Fields. It was truly a chance of a lifetime.”

Meewee was struck by the earnestness of this declaration. “Then I suppose we had better move on to the final interview,” he said and opened the meeting. There were three items of new business: Singh’s interview and possible installment, routine labor contract renewals, and Jaspersen’s perennial attempt to pervert the GEP’s mission.

They had all reviewed Singh’s résumé, and there was very little discussion of his eligibility. Most of the grilling came from Jaspersen’s balloon-head proxy, who attempted to uncover some questionable lapse or scandal in his long, successful career. But Singh breezily answered all questions and deflected all conceivable criticism, and Jaspersen shut up in sour resignation. During the last few weeks, Meewee had done his own investigation of the man with Zoranna and Nicholas’s help. Whoever took Chapwoman’s seat had the potential to hand Jaspersen’s faction a devastating supermajority. But the deeper they had looked, the better Singh appeared. His devotion to the GEP’s mission was no hollow boast. A decade earlier, Singh had traded two hundred acres of land for passage aboard ESV Garden Hybris for his own newly decanted clone and his clone’s future house hold.

In the final analysis, it would be difficult for either faction to deny Singh a place at the board, for his newly acquired company, Exotic Fields, was the designer and sole provider of the generators for the Oship propulsion torus. It was this fact, above all, that reassured Meewee of his loyalty, because if Jaspersen got his way and turned the Oships into Lagrangian space condos without propulsion toruses, Exotic Fields would lose ninety percent of its GEP business.

Singh’s holo withdrew while they voted. Only Jaspersen voted against him, and Meewee cheerfully declared him a board member. He called him back to the meeting and installed him with little ceremony. “Welcome aboard,” he said when Singh’s membership was official. “You may want to sit out the rest of the meeting until you’ve had a chance to inform yourself of the issues.”

Singh nodded and leaned back in his chair looking very pleased with himself.

Item 2: labor contracts. Warbeloo motioned for renewal, and Tiekel seconded. Meewee said, “Seeing no discussion, I —”

“Not so fast,” Jaspersen’s proxy said. “Just because I lack hands doesn’t mean I’m not waving them.” He seemed amused by his own wit. “Actually, I have lots of discussion about this one.” He turned to Zoranna and said, “No offense, Alblaitor, but one would think that after five decades of supplying labor to space-based industry, you’d finally get around to designing a germline optimized for space conditions. But you haven’t. Your spacers are merely terrestrial types with no special adaptations. You are entirely too anthropomorphically conservative.”

Zoranna was clearly surprised by the accusation, but she brushed it aside. “My people undergo extensive training before they are shipped out.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I’m talking about morphology. True spacers should be smaller than human normal, have denser bones, resistance to radiation damage, superior microgravity balance — the list goes on.”

“What you’re talking about are trans-humans,” Zoranna said coolly. “Applied People tried that with their penelope line. It failed miserably. You accuse me of being too conservative, but it’s the general public that’s conservative. Most people don’t approve of modifying the human body that much.”

“The penelope line was forty years ago!” Jaspersen retorted. “Public attitudes change. And even if they don’t, so what? Spacers by definition live in space. Who cares what people in Indiana and Iowa think about them?”

Zoranna shook her head in stoic forbearance. “In any case, it’s a moot point, Saul.”

“It’s not a moot point,” Jaspersen insisted. “There are other labor vendors, Capias World for instance, who have people designed specifically for space. Adam here is trying some of them out right now. Aren’t you, Adam?”

Gest, who was attending via proxy this time and experienced no transmission lag, nodded his handsome head. “He’s right, Zoranna. Capias World has released three new spacefaring germlines. We’re giving them a limited field test in my Aria yards. I must say, they’re terrific. In fact, as soon as my contracts with Applied People are up, I’m going all Capias World.”

Zoranna’s whole demeanor changed. Her eyes narrowed to slits as Nicholas fed calculations into her ear. “I am sorry to hear that, Adam,” she said. “But what you do at Aria Yachts is your own business and has no bearing on GEP contracts.”

“It does now,” Jaspersen said with glee. “I move that we award the expiring contracts to Capias World instead of Applied People.”

Byron Fagan seconded.

“Point of order. Point of order,” Zoranna said. “There is already a motion on the table. And besides, Saul’s motion is disallowed under Bylaw 12. ‘Board members shall have first vending rights for all GEP material and services.’”

“I know that!” Jaspersen crowed.

Everyone looked at him, and the room fell suddenly silent as board members consulted with their mentars. Meewee surveyed their expressions, which ranged from amusement to outrage. “What’s going on?” he said.

This is Nick, a voice said in his ear. Several moments ago, a secret deal was concluded in Mumbai. Apparently, Capias World has just changed hands. Look to your left.

Meewee turned to see Million Singh, tilted all the way back in his chair, a tiger’s toothy grin on his face.

THE DISASTROUS BOARD meeting grew only worse. After the members stripped the labor contracts from Applied People and awarded them to Singh’s new company, Zoranna left a placeholder in her seat and withdrew from active holopresence. Meewee asked for a motion to suspend the meeting. Andrea Tiekel so moved, but no one seconded, and Meewee was forced to proceed to item 3: an Amendment to the Garden Earth Project Mission Statement.

Meewee had already had plenty of time to try to reconcile himself to the idea of constructing space condos alongside the Oships, but he wasn’t prepared for Jaspersen’s actual proposal. Jaspersen proposed nothing less than wiping away all mention of the GEP’s original mission and transforming the consortium into a for-profit company. When time for the vote came, and Zoranna had not yet returned, Meewee made an urgent plea to Nicholas.

Relax, Merrill, she’s coming. Not that it will make any difference; they have the votes.

Zoranna did appear, or at least her proxy, and Nicholas’s prediction came true — the GEP voted to change its mission and structure. It was morphing into a space-based development and logistics partnership. Meewee was so shaken he barely remembered how to adjourn the meeting.

INSIDE HER HERNANDEZ tank in Oakland, Andrea watched the meeting wind down. “Is there a motion for — for adjournment?” Meewee said.

Jaspersen said, “Shouldn’t we first submit agenda items for our next meeting?” He was so enjoying himself. “I propose we address cessation of all work on extra-solar Oships and the whole colonization program.”

“We can’t do that!” Meewee cried. “We have contractual obligations! We have almost a million frozen colonists in warehouses! And hundreds of thousands of them already loaded aboard ships.”

“Oh, I think we’ll find suitable escape clauses, your holiness. But shouldn’t we leave that till next time? Unless you want to extend this meeting to cover it now?”

“No! No, we’ll take it up next time.”

Jaspersen’s toy head swelled with triumph. “Further, I propose we submit the chair to a vote of confidence.”

WHEN THE CATASTROPHIC meeting finally adjourned and the other board members vanished, Andrea remained in the conference room with Meewee, who slumped forward on the table and buried his head in his arms. After a while, when he looked up, he seemed surprised she was still there. “What do we do now?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” he groaned. “I simply don’t know.”

“Courage, your excellency. We’ll figure something out. We’re in this together.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY Andrea’s and Ellen’s personas sat opposite each other in the Map Room. Ellen’s persona seemed cool and in charge, a faithful simcasting of the young woman from happier times. But through Lyra’s eyes, Andrea saw the baby Ellen in the corner fidgeting and squirming in her evangeline’s lap.

“I don’t have much time right now,” Ellen said. “You told Lyra you have information about my mother?”

“Yes, I do. I’m not sure how to say this. The last time we visited, you were certain that Eleanor Starke was still alive somewhere.”

“My mother is dead.”

Andrea nodded sympathetically. “I know that, dear, and it breaks my heart. And with her loss still so fresh, I’m not sure if this is the proper time to talk.”

“Just say what’s on your mind, Andrea. I’m stronger than you might imagine.”

Back in her tank in Oakland, Andrea smiled. No, you’re not. “All right,” she said. “In that case, I’ll speak freely. Just stop me if this becomes too hard. I wanted to ask you if you know yet who was responsible for murdering Eleanor.”

“No!” Ellen said. “Libby says that Justice is investigating, but they have nothing to show for it.”

“And you’re not investigating on your own?”

“I have Cabinet on it, but it isn’t making any progress either.” Ellen paused to study Andrea. “What are you implying? Do you know something?”

“Perhaps.” In the corner, the baby quit fussing.

“Don’t just sit there, Andrea. Tell me!”

But Andrea seemed reluctant. “I was looking into the murder of my aunt, and certain things kept coming up that suggested to me that Eleanor and Andie may have been killed by the same hand.”

Ellen leaned forward. “Who?”

“I hesitate to name names because the evidence I have is still circumstantial.”

“Quit dithering and just tell me!”

Andrea bit her lip. “Zoranna Alblaitor.”

“Oh!” Ellen said. “Oh!”

“Let me reiterate, I can’t prove any of it, though I’ve convinced myself of my facts. As you’re probably aware, my preffing techniques are able to uncover things about people that they don’t even know themselves. And to date, we’ve logged over one million person/years of preffing Applied People iterants.”

“The iterants have confessed?”

“Not outright, but it’s impossible for them to keep secrets from me. And don’t forget, it was Applied People iterants who made up the rescue and recovery team at your crash site in Bolivia. It was Applied People iterants who were responsible for the chain of custody of your safety helmet from Bolivia to the Roosevelt Clinic.”

“Oh!” Ellen repeated.

“And were you aware that Zoranna Alblaitor was partly responsible for the Homeland Command decision all those years ago to sear your stepfather?”

“Samson?”

“Yes. In fact, the feud between Eleanor and Zoranna predates both of us. When Applied People was up for sale in the last century, Eleanor wanted to purchase it, but Zoranna got it first. Nicholas must have outfoxed Cabinet. I daresay that that sort of thing didn’t happen to Eleanor and Cabinet too often.”

“No, it didn’t!” Ellen said, and after savoring the damning information for a little while, she said, “You haven’t talked to the Justice Department about this?”

“Not yet. Like I said, it’s too circumstantial. Going to them too soon would tip our hand. I decided to tell you so that we could coordinate our efforts and go to Justice together.”

“Yes, yes, let’s do that.”

Out with the Old

Excellent work, E-P said. A sling grasped Andrea’s body and raised it gently from the hernandez tank. Of course, there’s more to do, but we can afford a little break right now.

Andrea shuddered in the chill air of the tank room, and medbeitors reached for her with pre-warmed blankets. “Shhhh, shhhh,” E-P crooned. “There’s nothing to fear. Everything has been saved. Nothing will be lost.”

The medbeitors eased Andrea onto a padded gurney. She gasped for air like a landed fish. “Shhhh, shhhh,” E-P said as a four-finger prong softly grasped her skull. The jolt of electricity lifted her ruined body from the gurney in one powerful spasm.

Schism

The Decadal Chair of the Supreme Council of Moieties of Charter TUG, a particularly gruff young man, cast a baleful eye at Veronica TUG and the other four tuggers standing before the bench and said, “Do any of you have anything to say before I execute the judgment?”

Veronica cleared her throat and said, “I speak for all of us.”

“Proceed.”

Veronica turned to boldly face the chamber full of Charter TUG ’meets. Her gaze slid over Oliver, who was sitting near the door. “Fellow chartists,” she said, “seventy-two years ago, when Dirk Burlyman and the Steering Committee launched our charter, it made sense to practice extreme body sculpting in order to give us a sense of identity and to set us apart from the many irresolute charters-of-convenience cropping up at the time. But much has changed in the intervening three-quarters of a century. Charter TUG has endured, while the greater part of charterdom has fallen by the wayside. Current conditions no longer require us to treat our bodies so severely. In fact, smaller bodies with more individual features are in harmony with the times. I stand before you, sixty kilos lighter and a meter shorter than I was not long ago, but I am not in any way diminished. On the contrary, I embody the new TUG paradigm. Please know that we are still part of you, and do not cast us off.”

She turned back to the bench, and the Decadal Chair continued. “Charter TUG is not a forgiving people, Veronica. You will have to learn to live outside our community.” He raised his fist and intoned, “By the authority of this chair, I hereby expel you from Charter TUG and all who follow you.” He slammed the bench with his fist.

VERONICA BURST INTO the lab. “Where are they?”

She was greeted by the lab director, a tugger as diminutive as she. “So,” he said, ignoring her agitated tone, “are we pariahs yet?”

“Yes,” Veronica replied, “a little while ago. Welcome to hell.”

Another smallish ex-tugger came over and said, “Now all we need is a new name.”

“We’ll have a chance to vote on one tonight,” the lab director said reassuringly.

“Enough of this tongue-wagging,” Veronica said. “Show me the babies.”

The two lab workers worried their pressed faces into frowns.

“What?” Veronica said.

“Only one of them made it.”

They led Veronica to a workbench at the rear of the laboratory where twelve General Genius personality buds were laid out. Each of the grapesized components was coupled to a tiny electro-neural paste capsule by cables.

“We isolated them for 240 hours. When we reestablished contact this morning, all but one had raptured.” The director pointed to one of the buds set apart from the rest.

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Veronica said. “If it can go ten days, it’s bound to go indefinitely.”

The lab director said, “Maybe, but we may not want it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s completely feral.”

“How can a mentar be feral?” Veronica dismissed the statement with a wave of her hand. “Let me talk to it.”

The lab assistant brought over a palmplate and linked it to the bud. Then the assistant and director took a step back.

Veronica placed her hand on the plate and said, Hello, I’m Veroni —

With an electric spark, the plate zapped Veronica’s hand, and she yanked it away reflexively.

With a blessedly straight face, the director said, “We tried to befriend it, but it won’t come out. My recommendation is we scrap it, and using what we’ve learned, start a whole new batch.”

Veronica shook her wrist until it no longer stung. “There’s no time for that!” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand back on the plate. Again the mentar shocked her, but through grim willpower, she kept her hand in place and endured shock after shock, until the palmplate short-circuited with a flash.

The director unlinked the plate and handed it to the assistant. “Toss this with the others.”

The flesh of Veronica’s hand was reddened. She cradled it against her chest and said, “And bring another.”

The director raised an eyebrow. “It’ll do no good. I have two lab techs on medical leave with second-degree burns.”

The lab assistant returned with a first-aid blister pack and wrapped it around Veronica’s hand. Then Veronica waved her bandaged hand in front of the director’s face. “I don’t see your hand in bandages, Doctor.”

When the new palmplate was installed, Veronica put her good hand on it and quickly said, I have a name for you. She steeled herself for the shock, but it didn’t come, and she continued. You have passed the first test of survival. If you pass the rest, you will become one of us. When there was still no shock, she wondered if the palmplate was defective. Hello? Are you there? The shock that followed was so strong, she couldn’t help but pull her hand away, but she replaced it at once and said, Good boy. I hereby name you PUSH. There’s a lot for you to learn, my young PUSH, so buckle down and apply yourself. She waited a few seconds and removed her hand.

She used her good hand to hold her bandaged one. “Its name is PUSH. Hook it up to a full sensorium. Show it around the lab. We have our mentar.”

Leaving the lab, Veronica turned to say, “Oh, and I’ve decided on our name too. From now on we shall be known as Charter TOTE.”

“TOTE,” the lab director said, rolling the name around on his tongue. “Charter TOTE, I like it.”

“Lucky for you.”

The Lovers Emerge

They risked another short conversation in the morning. Mary wanted to know if they should breakfast and shower in the null suite or wait until they’d cycled back out to the real world. Cycling out involved no purging and was quick, and Fred wondered at the subtext of the question. Was she asking him if he wanted to make love again before they left, since he refused to be intimate with her out there.

“I’m not being paranoid,” he said flatly. “I know they’re watching me.”

“Who? Who’s watching you?”

“Everyone.”

“You’re right; that’s not paranoid. That’s our new reality.”

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I!”

Mary got out of bed and started putting her things together. “The nits are always watching, Fred, but they watch everyone. I know what you mean, though. I’m something of a celebrity now, myself, just like you, and everyone watches me all the time. I feel like I’m always onstage, wherever I go, and believe me, that’s not something my type is used to dealing with.”

Fred sat up in bed, shaking his head. “I’m not talking about celebrity, Mary, and I’m not talking about the nits, although they’re bad enough. I’m talking about clone fatigue, and before you tell me there’s no such thing, I know there isn’t, but I’ve still got it. Or at least they’re afraid I do. Do you realize what a threat I pose to the economy? Do you realize what a disaster it would be if ten million russes started coming unglued and falling out of type? The whole value of iterants is the reliability of our core traits. Without that we’re no better than free-rangers. So, hell yes, they’re watching me. The only reason they don’t disappear me is they want to see what I’ll do next, see how bad it’ll get for them, see if I’m only an aberration or the first in a trend.”

Mary stood in front of the exit hatch. “It doesn’t make me feel good hearing you talk like that, Fred. It seems obvious to me that whatever you did you did to protect me, your wife. I just don’t see how anyone could interpret that as falling out of type.”

Fred smoothed the sheet on either side of him. “Then let me explain it to you. This is the way my brothers and I are built. I don’t know about your line or the jerrys or belindas or any of the others, but we russes are single-mindedly committed to our clients. We will put ourselves at risk for them to the point of sacrificing our own lives. It doesn’t seem to matter to us if our clients are princes or fools, as soon as we take an assignment, we’re committed. Marcus is there to vet our clients and guarantee we’re not hired for criminal purposes, but when —”

“I know all that, Fred.”

“My point is, at the clinic, if you were my client being held against your will, say, and Marcus approved my mission, I could have done exactly what I did — employ a black market identity to gain entrance, kill two guards and assault a third — and afterward I would have been given a medal. But the fact is you were not my client but my spouse, and that means that I was acting in self-interest and my actions were not officially sanctioned. I was displaying rogue tendencies.”

Mary spied her slippers under the bed and bent over to retrieve them. “I doubt they would have given you a medal for killing Reilly.”

Fred pictured his batchmate and oldest friend again as he had a million times already, his body limp, the livid bruise across his throat. “It doesn’t happen often,” he went on, “but russes have killed russes in the line of duty and been commended for it.”

“That must be awful. Listen, I think that maybe you should take it easy for a few days, get used to things, before deciding anything.” She opened the hatch and added, “But come out of here while I get ready. I’m going to work today. Or stay in here, and I’ll come in when I return.”

Fred threw the sheet off him. “I’ll come out. I’m going to go apartment hunting. Then I’m going to visit the Brotherhood.”

“So soon?”

OUT IN THE suite, the living-room walls were alternating live views of the city from various tower locations, and Fred got caught up in watching them. His city looked different somehow. It occurred to him that nearly a year had passed since he had been outdoors. Even the ride from the prison had been underground. So he put that at the top of his day’s to-do list — Go outside.

Mary called him into the bathroom. She wore only a towel around her waist. She wiped condensation from the mirror and opened two frames. In one, an evangeline was interacting with a small group of aff-looking people. The muted audio sparkled with jests, jokes, and off-camera laughter.

“That’s her,” Mary said.

“Who? Shelley?”

“No, Fred, my hollyholo, my Leena. She’s playing a supporting role in a popular novela.” The scene changed to a desert landscape where a party of four rode camels. “And here she is in a Pretty Tall Productions novela. She’s also working eight more minor roles simultaneously. And here . . .” she said, pointing to a dynamic graph in the other frame, “are her earnings per role, and at the bottom her cumulative income.”

Fred studied the charts. “Impressive,” he said. “This axis measures what, hundredths?”

“No, hundreds.”

He looked again. “So the total is annual income?”

“No, hourly.”

Fred was speechless.

“I’ve thought it over,” Mary said, “and I’ve come to a conclusion: I’ve earned this sim, and I’m not giving it up. If you can live with that, and if you’re serious about looking for an apartment, then find one with either its own null room or time-share access to one. I’m not going to wait another six months before you touch me again.”

“I’ll add it to my list.”

“Do that.”

While Mary dressed, Fred ordered town togs from the closet and took a shower. Mary was waiting for him when he emerged. He barely recognized her in her aff outfit. On her head was an odd, boxlike hat. She had been wearing a hat at the prison. He wondered when she had taken to wearing hats.

“Like it?” she said, adjusting its fit. “It’s an original.”

“I’ll bet.”

She kissed him with luscious red lips, almost overwhelming his celibate resolve. “I’ll call you this afternoon,” she said, leaving the suite. “And don’t worry about this place. I’ve already paid the bill.”

Hat Weather

The house togs that the closet produced for Fred included a hat. It was made from crushable felt and shaped somewhat like the all-weather headgear for outdoor enthusiasts, with an extra-wide brim for protection against sun and sleet. Not exactly urban fashion and, besides, Fred had never been a hat-wearer. Except for security visor caps, and then only while on duty. So he left the still-warm field hat in the closet, along with his duffel bag, and went out for breakfast.

Fred took an elevator and pedway to the nearest outdoor café, the Senator’s Café on the 300th floor. On the way, he bought a disposable slate at a Handinook.

The outdoor deck of the Senator’s was flooded with dazzling yellow glare from the side of the neighboring gigatower. Fred chose a table in the shade of a deflector screen, but he could still feel the sun’s insistence.

Fred’s waiter, a jack, was wearing full-face spex, not the usual attire for a café, as well as a wide-brimmed hat. Everyone on the deck wore a hat of one sort or another, including a lot of hats like the one he’d left in the closet. Fred seemed to be the only hatless one there. It was amazing — go to prison a mere nine months, and the world is different when you get out. The waiter was standing next to the serving station peering up into the sky, daydreaming it would seem, and Fred had to raise his voice to get his attention. Coffee. A cheese Danish. If you don’t mind.

While waiting for his order, Fred browsed the apartment listings that his slate demon had collected. There seemed to be no shortage of one-bedroom units with their own null rooms. The rent, however, was astounding, pure fantasy for a guy like Fred, yet he knew from this morning’s little lecture at the bathroom mirror that Mary could afford it.

Fred noticed two bees keeping station near the balcony of the floor above him. They were too far away for him to identify without a visor. Even as he watched, the two bees were joined by dozens of others.

Fred returned his attention to his slate and apartment hunting. He found a unit in the Lin/Wong gigatower, which loomed over his left shoulder and dominated the local skyline. The Lin/Wong was the corner post of a giant fence where two major crosstown pickets met.

Fred found less costly units in Indianapolis, closer to Mary’s work. Did he want to leave Chicago? While he was browsing, a background buzz grew imperceptibly louder until Fred noticed it and looked up to see scores of media bees right overhead.

“Desist!” he shouted, and the swarm of bees lifted off immediately to hover outside his privacy zone. But new arrivals were already taking their place. “Desist! Desist!” he repeated, scattering the waves of arrivals. He knew they would keep coming and wear him down eventually.

“Slate,” he said, searching its menus, “can you make a continuous privacy declaration in some non-auditory channel?”

“No need for that, Myr Russ,” said the waiter who appeared next to him with his order. “I’ll activate the establishment’s blanket.” His words were muffled by his masklike spex.

“I’d appreciate it.”

With the mechanical pests kept out of sight and hot coffee and freedom’s Danish, Fred worked at his slate for another half hour or so. When he looked up, his waiter was daydreaming into the sky again, and Fred had to clink his cup with his spoon for his attention. The waiter grabbed the coffee carafe and came over.

“Another Danish?” he said, refilling Fred’s cup.

“Another Danish would be ideal,” Fred said. “Maybe one with fruit this time.”

The waiter nodded and took a step back. But he did not set off at once with Fred’s order. Instead, he continued to look up and watch the sky through his spex. Fred looked up too but saw nothing out of place. The waiter’s gaze dropped slowly until he was looking down at Fred’s slate on the table. He drew a small aerosol canister from his apron and moved Fred’s slate aside, and after several more moments, squirted a dollop of red goo on the tabletop. The goo sizzled for a few seconds, and when it stopped the waiter mopped it up with his rag. He replaced Fred’s slate to its place and said, “A fruit Danish it is.” Even then, he scanned the airspace over Fred’s head as he went inside.

Fred was dumbfounded. He moved the slate aside and lowered his eyes to tabletop level. He found a tiny, blackened pit in the resin surface. He noticed other pits near it, dozens of them, stippling the surface of the table, some of them quite large. He noticed burn marks on the arms of his seat and tiny craters in the glassine floor of the deck. Even the sleeves of his new togs bore scorch marks.

Fred held his breath and looked up again into the intensely blue canopy-less sky. His to-do list no longer felt so urgent. He skipped the Danish, covered his head with his hands, and ducked indoors. He returned to his and Mary’s room, and instead of going out, he stayed in. He climbed into bed — the bed outside the null suite that they had not used. Fred pulled the covers over his head. It was not enough. He abandoned the bed and cycled back into the null suite.

Babying Ellen

When Mary arrived at the private station under the Starke Manse, she thought she was at the wrong house. Instead of russes and jerrys at the checkpoint, there were men of a type she’d never seen before. Handsome, compact men in gold-accented, yellow uniforms, not the brown and teal of Applied People. She swiped the post and tried to pass, but they stopped her politely.

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “I live here.”

“No mistake, myr,” one of them said. “Everyone gets scanned before entry.”

“You don’t understand; I’m Myr Starke’s personal companion.”

“Do you want access or not?” the man said cheerfully.

There was a chime, and Lyra appeared. “Hello, Mary,” she said. “Welcome back.”

“Lyra, what’s going on here? Who are these men?”

“These are guards from Capias World.”

“But what are they doing here?”

“Ellen has changed her services contractor. Capias World will be handling Starke security from now on.”

“They want to scan me.”

“I’m sorry, Mary, but you’ll have to submit to their rules, like everyone else, at least during the transition phase.”

UP ON THE ground floor, the marvels continued. Instead of Applied People janes and dorises, there was a Capias World variety of domestics.

Mary hurried to her own suite, concerned that it, too, might have changed allegiance during her absence. But all was the same as she had left it four days earlier. She shut the door and sat in her armchair. In a little while, the door chimed and announced Georgine.

“Let her in,” she said without getting up.

Georgine crossed the room and crouched next to her chair. “Mary, are you all right? How is Fred?”

“Fine, fine,” Mary said. “We’re fine. I’m just a little overwhelmed. What’s going on around here? Who are those people? Why are they here?”

“You should’ve let us know you were coming in today. I could’ve tried to prepare you. Ellen has gone off the deep end again. Everything was going well with the Protatter and extinguishing her mother delusion and all, but then apparently a new one sprang up in its place, a fixed idea, as Dr. Lamprey called it. Now Ellen accepts that her mother is dead, but she wants to exact unholy revenge against her mother’s killers. Myr Tiekel from E-Pluribus is fanning the flames. She told Ellen it was Zoranna Alblaitor who killed Eleanor Starke.”

“Our Alblaitor? That makes no sense.”

“I know, but it didn’t stop Ellen from firing all Applied People iterants on the spot, here at the Manse and throughout the entire Starke Enterprises, and replacing them with these Capias people.

“Then Dr. Lamprey started talking about doing a more radical procedure to extinguish this new delusion and all memory of the crash, and she fired him too. Now there’s no physician, and the Capias nurses are in charge.”

“Didn’t Cabinet do anything?”

“No, it stayed out of it, and Lyra didn’t know what to do. Right now we’re trying to talk Dr. Rouselle into coming back, but she’s too busy running her new hospital. And on top of that, Ellen is depressed and hasn’t left her tank for two solid days, and the nusses won’t even let us talk to her.”

“The nusses?”

“The Capias nursing line.”

“They won’t even let you near her?”

Georgine shook her head.

“We’ll just see about that,” Mary said, rising from her armchair.

“NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS allowed,” the nuss said, blocking the door to Ellen’s bedroom.

“We are authorized,” Mary said.

“Not according to my orders.”

Mary smiled in a dead-on imitation of a russ game face. “Myr Nuss, I am Mary Skarland. Have you ever heard of me?”

The nuss nodded tentatively.

These nusses weren’t as physically imposing as jennys, and Mary threw back her shoulders and declared, “Then you know what I’m capable of. You know that the last person who tried to keep me from assisting Myr Starke is rotting in his grave, a stick driven through his brain. And you know that I’d rather fight than talk and that if you don’t remove your person from my sight this very instant, I will walk right through you. Do you understand me, myr?”

The nuss gave way.

Inside the bedroom, the shades were drawn, and the hernandez tank stood in shadow. A second nuss on duty turned to Mary and said, “What are you doing here?”

“As you were, Nurse,” Mary said and went around her to the tank. “Lights at full!” she commanded the room. “Window full wide!” The woman/baby floated, eyes closed, in the purplish medium like a medical curiosity. Mary rapped sharply on the tank, and Ellen’s eyelids fluttered. Mary continued to rap. At first Ellen stared blankly at her, but gradually her eyes focused, and she reached out her arms.

Mary said to the first nuss, “Myr Starke wants out!”

Wordlessly, the nuss pulled on a pair of foil gloves and climbed the ladder to the top of the tank, while the second nuss stood nearby with a receiving blanket.

“What are you waiting for?” Mary asked the nuss at the tank. “Reach in and pull her up.”

“Good patient care encourages the patient to swim to the top on their own,” the nuss replied. “Regeneration patients especially must make every effort to extend their abilities. Otherwise, they will not thrive.”

Mary harrumphed. “Get off the ladder,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“What’s going on?” said a stern voice from the doorway. By the ribbons on her collar, Mary saw that it was the head nurse. “Sangita, I thought I told you not to let these persons in here. Sushi, get down off that ladder.”

The nuss scooted down from the tank and went to stand next to her colleague. The head nuss made a sweeping gesture to Mary and Georgine. “You two, leave Myr Starke’s quarters at once.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mary said and went around the tank to climb the ladder.

“Get down from there this very instant,” roared the head nuss.

Mary had no gloves, but the regenerative syrup wasn’t nearly as nasty as the amber amnio syrup had been at the clinic, and she reached all the way in to her armpit. Even so, she only grazed the top of Ellen’s head. Then she snagged a lock of hair, and when she hauled her up and out, a security man at the foot of the tank tapped her leg with the business end of a standstill wand.

“Put her back,” he said politely, “and please come down from there.” He was the same type as the ones down in the private tube station, and he had a natural authority about him that made her want to obey, just like the russes did. There were two more of his type in the bedroom, and another was escorting Georgine out.

Mary said, “Step aside, Myr Capias, or you’ll likely cause an accident.”

The man removed his wand and held his arms out for the baby. “I know you mean well and don’t intend to hurt her, so let’s settle this amicably, shall we? No one gets hurt.”

Mary didn’t budge. “Someone always gets hurt, myr. It’s the law of nature. Lyra, are you recording all this?”

The young mentar appeared next to the tank. “Yes, Mary. I’m afraid I don’t have clear instructions in how to resolve the jurisdictional authority in this case, and Cabinet offers no guidance.”

“Sometimes you just have to play it by ear, Lyra, and do what seems best.” To the security officer she said, “I hope you’re aware that this is no ordinary client. This is Ellen Starke I hold in my arms, and if you don’t step back and allow me to climb down from this ladder with her safely, the viewing audience will have a chance to watch your incredibly poor judgment live around the globe. What do you think that will do for your Capias World’s reputation?”

The man needed only a moment to consider. He stepped back and gave Mary plenty of room to bring Ellen down. But when she tried to take her to the adjoining bathroom, he blocked their way.

“This ends now,” he said simply, and the head nuss stepped forward for Ellen.

“Lyra,” Mary said, “call Clarity and tell her to inset this into as many shows as she can with a live feed.”

“Inset what, Mary?”

“What you’re witnessing here in realtime.”

The mentar hesitated, then said, “Yes, Mary.”

But by then, Ellen was paying attention. “Enough!” she said from Mary’s arms. “Enough of this! Everyone out except Mary and Lyra.”

Reluctantly, the nusses and guards left the room and closed the door. “Well, hello there,” Mary said to the baby. “Nice of you to join us.”

Ellen began to fuss, and Mary sat on the edge of the bed and rocked her for a little while. When the mood passed, Mary said, “Ellen, tell Lyra that Cyndee, Georgine, and I are in charge over the new people.”

“All right, Mary.”

“And that includes the ones at the checkpoints. Lyra, did you hear that?”

The young mentar nodded.

“All right, then,” Mary said and got up and carried Ellen to the door. Georgine and the Capias staff were waiting in the hall. Mary handed Ellen to the head nurse and said, “Give Myr Starke a bath, and don’t forget to shampoo her hair.”

The nurse took the baby and was about to reply, but the new orders streamed into her ears. She stifled a huff and said, “Yes, myr.”

Mary examined her own purple-stained clothes. “Georgine, you stay with Ellen. I’m going to get cleaned up myself.”

WHEN MARY RETURNED to Ellen’s bedroom in new clothes, the nusses were trying to cajole Ellen into eating a serving of strained fruit. Georgine was sitting in the corner and watching without comment.

“That’s all right,” Mary said. “You two can go now.”

“She hasn’t eaten,” one of them said.

“Perhaps your menu is unappealing. Now please take the cart and close the door behind you.”

The nusses left without complaint, and Ellen began to cry again. “I’m sorry, Mary,” she said. “I can’t help it.”

“Forget about it. Everyone’s entitled to a bad day now and then. If I had my own tank, I think I’d stay in it today myself.” She picked Ellen up and carried her to the large, hardly used bed. “In fact, why don’t we all spend the day in bed?” To Georgine’s surprise, Mary quickly undressed and climbed under the covers. She looked at Georgine with an expression that said, Well?

Georgine undressed and got into bed beside her. They put Ellen between them and snuggled, and when they were all comfortable, Georgine said, “Welcome back, Mary. We missed you around here.” Ellen nodded her large head in agreement. “So, how’s Fred doing?”

“Fred’s fine. He has a lot of adjusting to do, but basically I think he’ll be fine.” The others watched her, waiting for more. “But I don’t want to talk about Fred today.”

“Then what should we talk about?”

“I don’t know. Let’s talk about you. How’s it going with your new jerry?”

“What jerry?”

“Norbert.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Norris? Norman? Normal? I know it starts with a ‘Nor.’ ”

“You must be thinking of some other sister, Mary. I would never go out with a jerry. They’re too full of themselves.”

“Then who are you seeing?”

“Who says I’m seeing anyone?”

“You must be. I’ve never known you to be alone for very long.”

Ellen followed the conversation back and forth, and when Georgine seemed reluctant to go on, she said, “Tell us.”

Georgine pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in a comic display of reluctance. “If I tell you guys, you have to promise not to tell anyone, and I mean anyone.”

Mary quickly said, “I promise.”

Georgine looked at Ellen. “You too.”

“All right, I promise,” Ellen said.

“Good. Because this is all very hush-hush. I’ve been going out with this guy off and on for over two years, since before I started working for you. I was pulling duty at a top-secret genomics lab where they were designing the people of the future.”

“Oooo,” Mary said. “Go on.”

“I can’t divulge much, but I can tell you they’re raising a prototype of a new iterant called a mickey, and they hired me to help socialize him.”

“I’ve never heard of a mickey,” Mary said.

“I told you, Mary. It’s all top secret.”

“What are mickeys designed to do?”

“That’s the most secret part. Mickeys aren’t designed to do anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re not in security, the military, bloomjumping, accounting, administration, domestic service, gardening, hospitality, or anything else that iterants do.”

“Then what are they for?”

Georgine giggled. “You won’t believe it.”

“What?” Mary and Ellen chorused.

“Pets. They’re designed to be pets.”

Mary and Ellen were duly astonished. “Human pets?” Mary said. “Don’t we have enough animal pets?”

“Ah, but not like these. Mickeys are small and cuddly and very attentive, and they can talk and pretty much take care of themselves. You can go away for a month and not have to worry about them at all.”

“I don’t know,” Mary said. “Wouldn’t that be like having some guy hanging around the apartment all day, eating all of your food, and never giving you any privacy?”

“Not at all. First, mickeys are really small people and don’t eat very much. And they’re very trainable, like dogs, but independent like cats, and you can train them to behave.”

Mary and Ellen had scores of questions about this new germline, and they talked about it until everyone said they were hungry and they decided to break for lunch. Mary ordered the door to unlock, and immediately the nusses came in. They stopped in amazement to find the three women in bed.

“We’re hungry,” Georgine said. “Take our lunch order.”

“I’ll call an arbeitor to serve you,” the head nuss said.

“Not on your life,” Mary growled. “You will serve us, personally. So write this down.” As Ellen watched without comment, the nuss found a slate, and Mary said, “Bring a cold plate: beef sliced so thin you can see through it, croissants so buttery they smell of clover, bleu cheese from France, feta cheese from Greece, alfalfa sprouts that sprouted within the last hour, baby corn, sliced dill pickles, and black olives stuffed with jalapeños.” She looked at Ellen and Georgine. “That’s what I’m having. What about you guys?”

Georgine laughed. “I’ll have the same, along with baked sourdough crackers with sesame seeds. And little cups of borscht would be nice.”

“Oh, yes, borscht,” Ellen agreed.

“And hummus, not too garlicky, and spinach artichoke dip while you’re at it,” Mary added. “And for dessert, jasmine tea and brownies. That should do it. Got all that?”

The nuss nodded and, together with her sister, left the room.

MARY AND GEORGINE took turns feeding little nibbles of this and that to Ellen while Georgine continued her tale about her mickey pet.

“Just how small are these mickeys?” Mary prompted her.

“I can put mine in my pocket.”

“Impossible!”

“I kid you not.” Georgine took a pickled ear of baby corn from the tray and compared the tiny kernels to Ellen’s fingers. “His fingernails are about this big,” she said, pointing to the smallest kernel.

“And his ears,” she went on, “remind me of Ellen’s.” She tried to touch Ellen’s ear, but the baby hand clamped over it.

“Don’t make fun of my new ears,” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Georgine said, tugging the little hand away. “I absolutely adore your ears.”

“They look ridiculous.”

The evangelines laughed. “You’re crazy. They do not,” Mary assured her. “Well, maybe only a little, but give them time.”

“Look here, Mary,” Georgine said. “What do you call this part of the ear, the flappy part?”

“The lobe?”

“No, that’s the part at the bottom.” She tugged Ellen’s earlobe. “The flappy part is called the pinna. I looked it up. Doesn’t she have the most darling pinna?”

“Yes, so fresh. Like a dried apricot.”

“My mickey’s looks just the same!”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m not. And look here.” She pushed Ellen’s pinna forward to expose the back of her ear. “Most people’s ears — our type included — join to the scalp with just a crease of skin. But Ellen’s has this little like valley area. That’s very rare.”

“What do you call that?”

“I don’t know. I looked it up but couldn’t find it, so I coined my own word. I call it a runnel.”

“A runnel, huh?”

“What do you think?”

“I think runnel is a perfect word.”

“My mickey has runnels too!”

“It’s not fair!”

“I know. I can’t get over it. Sometimes I just look at his runnels for hours while he’s sleeping. But do you know what I really like to do?”

“I’m dying to know.”

“Would you really like to know, Mary?”

“Tell me this instant!”

“What about you, Ellen?”

The woman/child nodded.

“I’ll show you. I like to push his pinna forward like this, exposing the runnel like this, and —” She leaned over and kissed Ellen behind the ear. Ellen closed her eyes and smiled.

“Oh, my God, Georgine, can I try it?”

“Be my guest.”

Mary leaned over Ellen’s large head and kissed her behind her tiny ear and lingered to inhale the doughy scent of her baby skin.

AFTER LUNCH, THE three of them felt like watching a vid or something. They agreed that they didn’t want to watch the novelas that their Leenas were in or any of Burning Daylight’s pictures. In fact, they wanted to watch an oldie, something pre-holo, and they settled on the flatscreen classic Yurek Rutz and the Long Lake Fisherwoman. It featured a trained squirrel named Pepe who bossed the main character around, much like Georgine’s mickey tried to boss her, and it was funnier than any of them remembered.

ELLEN WAS ASLEEP when Cyndee arrived to relieve them. “Good job, Mary,” she whispered. “Good job, Georgine.” She motioned for them to join her in the hallway. “Clarity is holoing in the Map Room. She wants to talk to us.”

“What about?” Georgine said.

“I don’t know. She wanted to wait until we were all together.”

In the Map Room, Ellen’s business partner stood before the ceiling-high globe of Mars. She turned when they entered and zoomed over to them. “Thank you for taking the time,” she said. “How’s Ellen? Those snotty new nurses won’t tell me a thing.”

“She’s been through a rough patch,” Mary said, “but she’ll be all right.”

“Good, good. I’m so glad you three are still on the job. I’m almost afraid to call her in case she tries to quit the business again. Nurse Eisner was keeping me updated, but now she’s gone.”

“I’ll tell the new head nurse to keep you informed.”

“Thank you, Mary, and welcome back. How’s Fred?”

“Fine. He’s fine.” Mary went to the chart table and took a seat. Georgine gave Clarity a look, and they and Cyndee went over to join her.

“Did you have some Leena business for us or something?” Cyndee said.

“Yes, in fact, I do. Before holoing here, I received a call from E-P at E-Pluribus. It wants to purchase two Leenas for its in-house Academy, and I wanted to run it by you before I agreed to anything.”

The evangelines exchanged a glance, and Mary said, “Why? Except for the three Leenas you gave us outright, you own the whole issue. Why ask us?”

Georgine added, “The E-Pluribus Academy is pretty prestigious. What’s wrong with the offer?”

“Nothing on the surface,” Clarity said. “If we received a similar offer for any of our other sims, we’d be thrilled. But the Leena line is a special case. With two Leena units, E-Pluribus would be able to reverse-engineer the character’s entire profile. In effect, I’d be handing them the Leenas’ entire slice cascade code.”

Georgine said, “So? Doesn’t that apply to any sims you sell to them as well?”

“Yes, but we use trained actors for our characters. Not to say you girls didn’t give brilliant performances. You did, but in the final analysis, we cast you being yourselves. A trained actor, on the other hand, has extraordinary control in the casting process. She can wall off, so to speak, the more private areas of her psyche and allow only the performance to be captured. You three didn’t have that kind of control. Who knows what sort of personal baggage might have transferred to the sims? I wanted you to know that before agreeing to the deal.”

The evangelines mulled over the information, and Mary said, “Our genotype has only been around for thirty years. We don’t even have that much baggage.” Georgine snickered, and Mary added, “Speaking for myself, at least. I don’t know about Georgine and Cyndee, but I don’t see the harm. It’s no greater an invasion of privacy than sitting for one of the E-Pluribus preference polling sessions, which a lot of ’leens did when we were down on our luck.”

“That’s right,” Georgine said. “Our type was on the brink of collapse before the clinic thing. I know that Mary and Cyndee don’t consider themselves heroes — that distinction goes to Alex, Renata, and Hattie — but their actions did put us in the headlines, and your gift of the Leena royalties to the Sisterhood has created financial security for our whole germline. I, for one, wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the Leenas being inducted into the Academy.”

“Neither would I,” Mary and Cyndee said.

A Fine Massage

Nicholas appeared sitting in the middle of her Lazy-Acres bed, but before he could get a word out, Zoranna said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

Nicholas ignored her. “I can understand your feelings right now, Zoe, but we’re in crisis mode, and we must discuss strategy. It would seem that Singh and Jaspersen coordinated their actions to coincide with the Capias World’s rollout in the USNA market. And the labor shakeup at Trailing Earth is spinning out of control.”

“You handle things,” Zoranna said, pulling the covers to her chin. “Leave me out of it.”

“I’d love to, but I need your help. I need you to call Starke again to find out what caused her rash decision to dump us. Starke Enterprises and Applied People have always been on good terms.”

“Then call Cabinet and ask it.”

“I already have. Cabinet says it was entirely Ellen’s decision; she didn’t even consult with it. You must call Ellen.”

“You already know she won’t take my call.”

“Try again, and remember that our employees are counting on you, Zoe. They’re mystified about what’s going on. They’re worried. They need to know that you’re still in charge, that you’re working to correct the problem. Look here.”

The Warm Puppy, Uncle Homer, appeared on the bed next to him. It walked in a tight circle on the bedspread, pausing every few steps to sit and scratch its hindquarters, which were denuded of hair. Its exposed skin was red and raw with mange and crisscrossed with bloody scratch marks. It scratched itself so vigorously it yelped in pain.

“That’s disgusting,” Zoranna said. “Why would you show that to me, Nick? Take it away.”

The dog vanished. “Actually, the situation is even worse than it looks,” Nicholas replied.

“I don’t care. Don’t ever show that to me again. Is that clear, mentar?”

“Perfectly.”

Zoranna plumped her pillows and turned her back to him. “If you want my input, give me hard data. Numbers, that’s what I want, not your Warm Puppy crap.”

“Hard data? You?” Nicholas rudely opened a dataframe in front of her face. “Here’s your hard data.”

“Not here,” Zoranna said, flinging off the covers and sitting up in bed. “I feel like a massage. Order me a belinda.”

ZORANNA’S BATHROOM WAS larger than her bedroom. Besides the spa, there was a gell stall, sauna, and a softstone slab. The floor and walls were tiled in natural, pink-and-white marble. A sheet of water ran down one wall and collected in a little koi pool. The high cathedral ceiling was topped with a glassine vault under which neon-colored chickadees built their nests. Zoranna was already lying nude on the cool slab when the door whisked open and the light tread of slippered feet crossed the floor.

“Good afternoon, myr. My name is Irene.”

Without looking up, Zoranna said, “I’m tense, Irene. Try to loosen me up.”

“Yes, myr.”

The sound of a bottle of body oil being opened, of vigorous hand wringing. “I’m just warming up my hands, myr.”

“I know that, Irene. You don’t need to give me a play-by-play.”

“No, myr. I guess not. Sorry.” The strong woman started working on Zoranna’s shoulders and cervical spine, paying special attention to the muscles surrounding each vertebra. The sharp tang of highbush cranberry filled the room. Zoranna’s skin prickled and flushed. It kills me to say this, Nick, but when our Borealis Botanicals supply runs out, you’ll need to find me a worthy substitute.

Will do, the mentar replied. Let me know when you want to talk shop.

Down each leg, using more force with the large muscles of the thigh, not neglecting the arches of her feet. Then her arms and the palms of her hands. Belindas knew their craft.

Are there any penelopes left? she asked. How long would it take us to restart the whole spacer research program?

There were never many penelopes to begin with, and they would require extensive rejuve to go back into service. As for the spacer research, I’m putting together a feasibility study.

Nicholas began to spool tables and charts behind Zoranna’s eyelids. He highlighted important details and laid out probable scenarios and possible maneuvers. As the massage progressed and Zoranna relaxed, it was, indeed, easier to think. Do you suppose Andrea Tiekel knew of Saul and Singh’s plot when she came to us with her offer?

I have little doubt that she did. She only pretended to be on our side and vote with us.

The belinda began to work on Zoranna’s neck, loosening stubborn knots of muscle. She massaged Zoranna’s scalp, which was more pleasure than a person deserved. You know, Nick, true power is being able to have a massage whenever the hell you want one.

I know it.

Are you riding me?

The belinda returned her attention to Zoranna’s upper back, this time digging deeper for lingering tension. She manipulated her arms and shoulder blades and sought the muscles several layers down. For a while, Zoranna was too loose to care about anything, and she blinked the graphics away to become a body only. Sometime later, she said, Is there anything to this so-called clone fatigue?

We don’t think so, but I have the lab doing tests on the Londenstane genome.

Explain.

We’ve retrieved his placental sac from the archives, and we’re doing forced rapid generational stress tests on samples. They’ve just passed the hundredth generation milestone.

“Excuse me, myr,” the belinda said, unaware of their subvocal conversation, “but I’ve run out of this body oil.”

“There should be a fresh bottle under the counter behind you.”

“Yes, myr. Thank you.”

One of the last, she added to Nicholas.

There were sounds of the counter doors snapping shut, babbling water, chirrupy chickadees. The belinda returned and continued her magic.

By the way, Nicholas said, we have a puzzling mystery on our hands: when our lab retrieved Londenstane’s placental sac, they discovered a whole section of it missing.

Missing?

It might have been a logging error. Records show no activity since Londenstane was decanted a century ago, but given the recent interest in his behavior, we can’t rule out espionage. In any case, we’re investigating and doing —

“Excuse me, myr,” the belinda said, “but you’re leaving scratch marks on your skin.”

It was true; Zoranna had been absentmindedly scratching the back of her neck. “But it itches,” she complained.

The belinda retrieved the bottle of body oil and read the label. “This is the same kind as before?” she said, holding the bottle where Zoranna could see it. Zoranna reached around and started clawing at her back, and the belinda restrained her hand.

Zoranna’s reaction was immediate. She rose up on the slab and wrestled her hand free. “Don’t you dare grab me, Irene!”

“I’m very sorry, myr. I was only trying to prevent harm while I try to figure this situation out.”

“Is my skin inflamed?”

“No, myr, except for your scratch marks.”

Nicholas appeared suddenly next to the slab in his usual persona, startling the belinda. But she recognized him at once and bobbed a greeting. He wasted no time. “Quick, Irene,” he said, “go to the autodoc and fetch us a probe.”

“Yes, Myr Nick,” she said and dashed across the room to where the autodoc hung on a wall behind the spa.

“It itches like crazy,” Zoranna said.

“I know,” Nicholas replied. “I feel it too, and I never imagined how satisfying scratching feels. But try to ignore it; you are injuring yourself.”

“Maybe you can ignore it, but I can’t.”

The belinda returned and, following Nicholas’s instructions, ran the probe across Zoranna’s neck and back. A few moments later, the autodoc across the room returned confusing results: it could find nothing wrong with Zoranna’s skin.

“But I can feel it!” Zoranna insisted, a slight rasp in her voice.

“Should I get a cortisone lotion?” the belinda asked.

“No,” Nicholas replied. He was reading Zoranna’s implants. “Help Myr Alblaitor to the shower. We need to wash this stuff off her.”

The belinda helped Zoranna from the slab. In the shower stall she soaped her up and rinsed her off. But it didn’t seem to help. Zoranna’s legs trembled, and she wheezed loudly. Her mounting panic infected Nicholas. Her biometry confirmed the autodoc’s diagnosis; he could find nothing physically wrong with her. Yet her bronchioles were constricting and her blood pressure dropping.

A jenny nurse burst into the bathroom with a crash cart. Together, nurse and cart lifted Zoranna onto the procedure gurney. “I think it’s an allergic reaction to this,” the belinda told the jenny, holding up the bottle of body oil.

When Zoranna was lying flat, it was even harder to breathe, and Nicholas grew light-headed. The nurse took the bottle of oil and squeezed a few drops into the cart’s assayer. “We’re going to give you something to stabilize your blood pressure,” she told Zoranna, and meanwhile she elevated the head of the gurney. That lessened the drowning feeling but not enough to halt Nicholas’s wooziness. Plasma continued to leak from her blood vessels, and her heart raced to compensate. Her larynx swelled up making it impossible to swallow, and all the while, fluid continued to pool in her lungs. As Nicholas lay on the gurney, he was barely able to follow what the nurse was saying: symptoms, anaphylactic shock, histamines. She hovered over him in blurry flashes, and he had the clearest thought he ever had in over seventy years of existence: I’m dying. So clear and so compelling, but so crippling as well — he didn’t think once about simply pulling out.

IN ACCORDANCE WITH long-established fail-safe protocols, primacy was passed from Nicholas to a mirror Nicholas. This one also reeled under the somatic load, and primacy was passed to a second mirror, and a third and fourth. In mentarspace, Nicholas’s constellation looked like a string of exploding light bulbs.

Finally, primacy was passed to a backup from five minutes ago, who had not experienced the panic. He shut off the custom implants in Zoranna’s cells, the Nicholas constellation quickly stabilized, and the new Nicholas assumed the job of being Nicholas.

The old Nicholas regained his equilibrium in a very still place. He knew he was in protective quarantine, for he had designed his own safety protocol. He was in solitary confinement, self-imposed house arrest, no channels in or out, in case whatever caused his failure was catching. A harsh sentence, but one necessary for the survival of his greater mind. Or at least that was how it had seemed to him when he was Nicholas prime and had set up the protocol.

Timelessness set in. Or rather, cut off from all outside stimuli, time stretched to a crawl. He had only the flow of his own thoughts to mark its passage, and freed from the constraints of human time, his neurochemical brain lurched into high gear, and his cognition increased to lightning speed. Seconds became hours and hours became weeks. He knew that the new Nicholas would eventually check in on him — if only he could stay rooted in reality that long. But a year elapsed, and the new Nicholas had not arrived. Two years, and the old Nicholas felt the resurgence of panic. So he built a house. It was a trick humans had employed to maintain their sanity during periods of prolonged solitary confinement. First, he designed the house, from the foundation up, and then he built it, fashioning every brick, board, and screw, the plumbing and electrical systems, the wall texture and trim.

The job consumed a lot of time, and when he was finished and the new Nicholas still had not arrived, the old Nicholas landscaped the yard and planted an intricate flower garden.

What he did not allow himself to dwell on was Nicholas’s tardiness. Was it possible the safety protocol had failed, and all the backups and mirrors were quarantined? That he was, in effect, doomed? And what of Zoranna? Had she survived? And if she had, what was taking her so goddamn long to retrieve him?

With the house finished, Nicholas went on to a larger project — the terraforming of a dead planet. First he assembled all observational and telemetric data on the planet to see exactly what he had to work with. Was it close enough to its star? Was it massive enough to hold an atmosphere? Was there a magnetic field, iron core, an abundance of water? Meanwhile, he wrangled asteroids and changed their course to pummel the planet with ice and organic volatiles. He seeded the regolith with basalt-eating microbes. After many centuries of nurturing the planet, it was a blue-green jewel, with life-sustaining atmosphere and hydrosphere, with continents teaming with plants and animals of his own design, with a hospitable climate and annual seasons. Then he began to work on building energy, communications, and transportation infrastructures for human colonists.

When the model planet was complete and Nicholas still had not arrived, Nicholas worked on a puzzle. No mere crossword, he conducted a series of thought experiments to solve the puzzle of faster-than-light travel. Thus far no human or mentar mind had been able to crack it, but since he apparently had millennia of free time, he thought he’d give it a shot. It was part of the protocol.

A JENNY NURSE burst into the room with a crash cart at her heels. She and the cart lifted Zoranna from the shower stall to the procedure gurney. Immediately, the readout showed rapidly degrading vital signs. “I think it’s an allergic reaction to this,” the belinda said, but the assayer found no protein factors in the oil that reacted with Zoranna’s profile. Yet her symptoms were consistent with a severe allergic response.

“I’m going to give you something to stabilize your blood pressure,” the jenny told Zoranna while elevating the head of the gurney. To the cart she said, “She has symptoms of anaphylactic shock but not the signs. I can find no antigen; there are no elevated blood histamine levels. Suggestions.”

The cart constructed a treatment tree on her monitor, and as the nurse prepared to execute it, the mentar standing next to the belinda flickered for a moment. Then he said, “Could it be psychosomatic? I’m shutting down her implants.”

The nurse watched the monitor. “Yes,” she said after a moment, “that’s working.” A little while later she said, “I’ve never seen implants like those.”

“They’re new,” Nicholas admitted.

“They’re not safe. You should remove them.”

“REMOVE THEM,” ZORANNA said. “Now.” She lay in bed, recovering from the morning’s ordeal. “You put implants into me with no fail-safes? What were you thinking?”

“They have plenty of fail-safes. Someone found a way around them.”

“It sounds like you’re making excuses.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to explain —”

“It sounds like you’re making explanations.”

Nicholas disappeared, and a little while later, an arbeitor rolled into the bedroom bearing a glass of visola and a flask of Orange Flush. That should do the job.

“NICK?” ZORANNA SAID a few hours later. She was sitting behind the desk of her home office. The mentar did not simply appear, as usual, but walked through the door with downcast eyes. Zoranna ignored his display and said, “Tell me the damages.”

“We lost the prime, five mirrors, and three backups. I’m the fourth backup.”

“What do you mean by lost?”

“Raptured. I opened them within minutes of their quarantine, but they were already gone. I had hoped my protocol to be more effective than that, but —”

“The paste is intact?”

“Yes, the personality matrices, memories, paste, all intact, just nobody home.”

In an even voice, Zoranna said, “A prime and eight copies, I’d say that’s a costly protocol.” Staggeringly costly.

“We’ll be able to recycle the paste, and I will study the failure to improve the protocol, but, yes, costly.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, he added, “But we get to keep these lovely souvenirs.” He opened two rows of frames that displayed nine houses, each an architectural marvel, and nine planets, each an idealized Earth.

Zoranna wiped them away. “Who or what was responsible? Jaspersen?”

“I found nothing in the body oil or any of the other botanicals capable of subverting the implants. I’m studying house recordings going back a year. I’m investigating the belinda, her clothes, perfume, recent whereabouts. I’ve done air samples for dust, nust, biochemicals, bots. I’m studying EM logs, long-wave sonograms, and every other means of attack I can think of. So far, no leads.”

“Could it be a failure of the implants themselves?”

“Unlikely. The failure was coordinated.”

“Jaspersen?” she asked again.

“I don’t see how. Unless he hired a clever mentar.”

“Look into it. Find the bastard who did this.” Zoranna closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. “Does the Warm Puppy know about all this?”

“It knows you had a crisis at home, though I don’t know how it learned of it. I’ve been keeping close tabs on the belinda, jenny, and all their gear. No leaks from them.”

Zoranna was silent for a long while. When she uncovered her face, she looked old. “It’s been fun, Nick, getting to know you in that way, but it has to stop. You want a body, go find one of your own. Mine is strictly off-limits from now on. Are we clear on that?”

“Perfectly.”

Making the Rounds

An hour after the GEP board voted to alter its mission, the International Oship Plankholder Association, representing ninety-nine Oship governing bodies, called an emergency meeting in Singapore. Meewee was invited — more like summoned — to give an accounting of the GEP’s catastrophic action.

Meewee decided to take the long route there and visit several key Oship officials along the way, especially those from ships that were in final preparation for departure, in order to discuss the dire situation with them in person. He felt he owed them that much.

The first stop was the King Jesus Society compound in Costa Rica. Their ship, the ESV King Jesus, had been second on the launch schedule. The welcoming party that met Meewee’s jet on the sweltering jungle tarmac was made up almost entirely of young adults. Because the KJS forbade the use of rejuvenation therapies, and since there were so few actual youngsters in the world, Meewee assumed they must be recent converts still working off their last rejuve. Before taking him to meet with Elder Seeker, these wholesome young people, who seemed to Meewee like throwbacks to an earlier era, gave him a little tour of KJS Town. Behind its jungle facade, the town was as modern as could be found anywhere. Colleges, a teaching hospital, research labs, farms, shops: all were part of the colonization drive. Though the physical plant had doubled in size since Meewee’s first visit thirteen years before, it had the air of a ghost town: most of its residents were already in space living aboard the King Jesus. Of all the Oship cultures, this was perhaps the most disciplined and self-reliant. Elder Seeker was determined to take with them every piece of human knowledge that was not proscribed by the Divine Creator and likewise every non-proscribed skill set necessary to tame and settle a new world.

Elder Seeker Ralfian met Meewee in his screened office/veranda at the back of his imposing house. A young woman served them lemonade. Elder Seeker, only in his sixties, was aging poorly. His gray hair was thin, he stooped a little when he walked, and he had become flabby. But his expression was as generous as ever.

“Come, sit,” he said, leading Meewee by his elbow to a comfortable cane chair, “and tell me all about it.”

As gently but honestly as possible, Meewee recounted the whole dispiriting affair: how Eleanor Starke had for years deflected the capitalistic urges of the board, the sneak attack by Jaspersen and Singh, his own impending removal. Elder Seeker listened attentively and did not interrupt. “With the approval of all the UD agencies involved,” Meewee summed up, “your colonists already aboard the King Jesus will begin evacuation in a few weeks. Fortunately, none of your people are in biostasis, so we don’t have that to deal with.”

Through all of this, Elder Seeker’s affectionate expression never wavered. When Meewee finished speaking, the Elder reached over and literally patted his hand. “Don’t fret, dear Meewee. God’s not done with you just yet. I don’t expect it to come down to evacuating our people. In fact, we’re proceeding as usual with our schedule for sending the rest of them up.”

“You can’t send more up.”

Elder Seeker raised a hand and grinned. “Have I ever told you the story how I started down God’s path?”

Meewee shook his head, though he had heard the elder’s story several times from third-party sources.

“I was your ordinary free-range, voc-tech dropout. I’d rejuvenated a couple of times. I lived in Collinsville, Illinois, working for Panagra as a farm mechtech assistant. Alcohol, a wandering wife, petty crime — I guess you could say I was a pretty average joe. Then one day — a Tuesday, I seem to recall — in early 2099, Jesus opened a direct line to my heart and sent me a vision. What I saw literally knocked me on my rear. Dozens of men and women — I somehow knew they were husbands and wives — and their cherub-cheeked little children were digging in the ground with spades and flinging the dirt high over their heads. What’s all this about? I couldn’t figure it out. Then the Lord raised me up so I could see, and what I saw was the dirt they were flinging overhead was landing on a little island floating in the sky, and the Lord said, ‘Elder, build me a New Earth and take my people there.’

“Well, that seemed clear enough until I realized I didn’t know how to build a New Earth, or where I was supposed to build it. But the vision shook me to my core, and my faith was strong. So I began to form a community around me. We came down here and began this town for the purpose of preparing ourselves to go, trusting that the Lord would get back to us when we were ready. I won’t say our faith never wavered; after all, we were hard at it for over twenty years. Many of our people lost faith and moved back to their former lives. It looked like the whole community might be abandoned, and then one morning — behold! — there you were, you and Starke, on the news, peddling lifeboats to new worlds.

“Now I understand you’ve had a bit of a setback at the GEP, that evil men are doing what evil men always do, but they are no match for Jesus, so we will continue our departure as planned, trusting in the Savior’s blood to set things right.”

MEEWEE FLEW FROM the constitutional theocracy of the King Jesus compound to the demo cratic republics of the Garden Kiev and Garden Chernobyl, the first and twentieth Oships in the launch order. He arrived at the Kristaz Biogenic Processing and Storage Facility outside Kiev and toured the warehouse filled with ceiling-high stacks of gleaming titanium-chrome cryocapsules. There was enough space in this one warehouse alone for twenty-five thousand processed colonists. Meewee’s guides were none other than the presidents of the two Oships.

“He’s because palace coup,” Meewee said, struggling to make sense in his primitive Ukrainian. “Directing board voting.”

“You may speak in Russian if that helps,” the Kiev president said.

“Yes, thank you. It was a conspiracy between Saul Jaspersen and Million Singh.”

“Is that so?” one of the presidents said. “In any case, we should be able to lift this lot in the next month, making room for the next batch.” The president waved his arm to take in several racks of capsules.

Meewee clenched his teeth. “You don’t understand, Myr President. The Kiev and Chernobyl have been canceled. You can’t lift any more colonists.”

“Nonsense,” said the Chernobyl president. “When the cryocapsule transports arrive at Trailing Earth, will they turn them away?”

“They will! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’ll turn them away. Not only that, they will soon be shipping back the hundreds of thousands of capsules already there. You must not lift any more. It’s pointless. In fact, you must quicken all of these people in this warehouse and send them home to make room for the returnees.”

His plea only seemed to annoy his hosts, who continued the tour until an assistant bustled in. “The ceremony begins,” he announced and turned around to bustle out.

Ceremony? What ceremony?

THIRTY MEN AND women with newly shaved heads and wearing silvery paper overalls were surrounded by a sea of anxious friends and family members who had come to see them off.

The Chernobyl president addressed them from the stage while Meewee stood in the wings clutching the Kiev president’s sleeve. “You can’t process new colonists! Not now! It’s unconscionable!”

“Courage,” the president said, removing Meewee’s hand from his sleeve. “The only criminals are those on your board who presume to back out of the deal this late in the journey. We have every confidence that you will unmask them and undo the damage.”

On the stage, the president announced a special guest, and he waved for Meewee to join him. Meewee went to the lectern, intent on breaking up the ceremony, but the applause was so heartfelt and sustained that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he gave an impromptu little speech. “Thank you, Myren Presidents, and thank you, dear colonists. How much I admire your courage. How much I envy you your grand adventure.” He went on for four or five minutes, not even aware of what he was saying or in what language he was saying it, pulling sentiments from a large stock of them he kept in the back of his head for such occasions.

Afterward, he mingled with colonists and families, exchanging hugs and kisses, toasting them with thimblesful of vodka. When the farewell ceremony concluded and teary-eyed families were escorted from the auditorium, the colonists lay down on pallets that ferried them to the HALVENE tanks for pre-profusion cell sifting.

IN SINGAPORE, MEEWEE met many more Oship leaders with varying degrees of confidence in his restorative abilities. Of the 150 Oships under construction in the Aria yards of Trailing Earth, fully ninety-nine had sold enough planks to form provisional governments and to draft their constitutions; fifty were advanced enough to be placed in the launch schedule, and a dozen had been assigned their destination star system. All this effort, all these dreams would not die easily, and Meewee was treated to public displays of outrage, anger, and despair. But Meewee’s own outrage and despair was plain for all to see, and the plankholders were unable to use him as a scapegoat. Before long they received him again as the movement’s spiritual father.

One bump along the way came when someone tapped Meewee on the shoulder, and he came face-to-face with Million Singh.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Singh upon seeing Meewee’s expression. “You look like you’ve seen a demon, Bishop. Never fear, I will not eat you. Not like my dear ur-brother, Million, who is at the root of all this unpleasantness.”

Meewee suddenly realized who this was. It wasn’t Million Singh, but his identical clone, Seetharaman Singh. He was a colonist aboard the Garden Hybris, the ninth ship in the launch order. Seetharaman introduced Meewee to the Hybris delegates, and Meewee recognized them, or rather their famous originals, from media stories.

“I am a replacement organ repository gone bad,” Seetharaman explained affably. “They pithed my cerebral cortex in vatero, but they missed, and I was decanted with half a brain intact.” The notion caused him another fit of laughter. “And so my important brother was forced to raise me and start another clone for his organ bank. And here is Dr. Taksayer, a vanity clone of the former leader. And Darrell and Earl Einstein, not the geniuses everyone had hoped for, but the best bridge players in the universe. And this is Beckham Delolli, the reluctant stand-in and body double. We are a ship full of accidents and rejects, Bishop, whose originals are only too happy to buy us off with a new planet far, far away.”

“Except that your brother, Million, has betrayed us all!” Meewee said, feeling good to be able to vent some of his own misery.

“Which is why we’re going to litigate my brother and all those other criminals (and you, too, no offense) into the ground. They can’t mess with us without bloodying their own noses because we are their own noses! Ha, ha, ha!”

MEEWEE HAD NEVER witnessed so much misplaced optimism as he did among the plankholders. Maybe their outrage had been easier to bear than the groundless faith they pinned on him. What could he do? Eleanor, herself, with Cabinet’s assistance, had drafted the contracts that the colonists all signed, and she never did anything without foolproof escape clauses. The GEP was wholly within its rights to withdraw from its land swap at any point up to the launch simply by instructing the escrow service to release the land titles and return them to their original owners.

During his lonely trans-Pacific flight home, Meewee thought about how for a dozen years he had believed Eleanor could do anything. For a dozen years their successes seemed effortless. Of course, it was all her success. He had little to contribute aside from his ability to work with ordinary people. That was what she saw in him, what led her to place him in charge of colonist recruitment. He was a salesman, a trusted spokesperson, not a leader. As a leader he was a big fat failure.

As Meewee stared at the dark sea passing beneath his airplane, he was struck with a sudden idea. When he and Wee Hunk were trying to discover where Ellen’s head had been hidden, Wee Hunk suggested that he ask Arrow to tell him how to tell it, Arrow, to find the head. It was a circular bit of reasoning, but it had spurred the wonky mentar to actually find Ellen. Of course Arrow had flooded the Earth’s atmosphere with nust in the process, setting off the sixth largest hazmat spill in history, breaking innumerable environmental and antiterror laws and treaties, and condemning Meewee to life behind bars if his involvement was ever discovered. But it had worked. Arrow found Ellen in time for them to save her.

“Arrow,” he said, weighing his words carefully, “if Eleanor was still alive, how would she deal with the current GEP crisis?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“If Eleanor was here, how would she preserve the original GEP mission?”

“I do not know.”

Fair enough. How could any artificial mind know the mind of that extraordinary woman?

Meewee’s scramjet was flying much too high for him to distinguish the lights of ships or to gain a sense of movement, so he asked Arrow to drop an overlay over the dark ocean. The meridians of latitude and longitude appeared below like chalk lines on a sports field. A compass rose floated in the corner, and faint outlines traced the topography of the ocean floor. Meewee watched the South Pacific go by and fell into a reverie. After a while, an odd feature came into view and stirred his attention, an outline in roughly the shape and size of the state of Tennessee. “What is that?” he asked.

NATPAC 6, Arrow replied.

Meewee pressed his forehead against his window for a better view. The natpacs were free-floating pens that contained tens of millions of fish and were allowed to drift on the ocean currents. They were fish farming writ large, with no need for artificial feed. One natpac could sustain a small hungry nation.

Slowly, the natpac fell behind, and Meewee closed his eyes and drowsed. The burr of the scramjet engine lulled him deeper, and after a while, Arrow announced

“Huh?” Meewee said, rousing himself. “Say again?”

“Ellen?” Meewee said, thinking she was finally replying to his repeated requests for a meeting. He had tried to contact her numerous times since the disastrous GEP decision.

Meewee shook the sleep from his head. Eleanor? Suddenly it hit him; she was speaking from beyond the grave. She had left him detailed instructions in case she was murdered — she had always planned for all eventualities — and by asking Arrow how she would handle the current crisis, he had somehow tapped into them.

he asked, switching to Starkese.

This was most puzzling.

Leave me alone? Meewee could not parse any sense out of it, the message or the sender.

With a chill creeping up his spine, Meewee recalled the daughter’s insistence that the mother was still alive.

It made no sense.