Counting Heads (47 page)

Bogdan spotted an unoccupied quiet nook across the busy corridor and carried his towering frozen concoction over to it. Once he passed through the pressure curtain, the din of the hall fell to a murmur, and he dropped into an armchair. For long moments he spooned up sweet bliss and watched as silent crowds went by. Then he noticed a Doorprizer frame next to the pressure curtain that was displaying the ongoing drawings. Every three minutes another prize was given away. An aff’s ransom in household necessities. A garbage digester appeared in the frame, and three minutes later the name of the winning charter—not Kodiak.

That’s all right—we have the one in the NanoJiffy. We don’t need another. One thousand square meters of indoor lawn—where would we put it? A thousand liters of Sara Lee Gourmet Ugoo—well, yes, let’s win that one. It’ll feed us for six months. Let’s—that’s all right.

A slew of lesser prizes followed, and then one of the hourly premium prizes—a brand-new 2.5 index General Genius houseputer, including installation. Here was a prize worth winning. Here was a prize the Kodiaks deserved to win, must win. It would go a long way in reversing their lousy streak of misfortune.

Bogdan set his empty dish on the floor and closed his eyes and prayed. Please, oh please, oh please.

Installers arrive at the door and say, Where do you want it? In here, in here. Tear this old one out. Put cam/emitters in every room, including the stairwells, including Sam’s shed. Hello, I am your new GG Expressions. Please assign me a name.

A name, a name. Lisa is already taken. There’s a whole planet named for her, don’t you know. How about—

Bogdan opened an eye and peeked at the frame. The winning charter was flashing, but it was not Kodiak. Bogdan slumped in his chair.

Just then, Troy Tobbler walked by the quiet nook. “Hey you!” Bogdan yelled and pushed himself to his feet. “Stop!” But by the time Bogdan exited the nook, Troy had melted into the crowd. Bogdan dashed after him, dodging pokey people. At the end of a corridor, he peered left and right. No Tobb in sight. He doubled back and checked the ballrooms along the way. They were holding some kind of meeting in one, boxing in another. In a third they were waltzing, trancedancing in a fourth. In a fifth he spied April standing alone against a wall. She was swaying in time to the music and clapping her hands to the beat, as though she were a temporarily sidelined dancer.

When she saw him, she got a guilty look. Stubbornly, she continued to clap to the music and said to him, “It’s amazing how many hundreds of men can go by without noticing me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bogdan said. “Everyone notices you. You’re beautiful!” And she was, warm and alive with love. The house would collapse without her. She is our heart. But suddenly the picture drops away like a cardboard cutout, and we see April as any guy might. We see her with the same eyes we use to see Annette Beijing, and the comparison is not kind. April has a long, horsey face, as though it got stretched while it was still soft, and her eyes are too small and set too far apart. Her torso, by contrast, is too compact. Her chin rests on her hips with not much in between. Her legs are long, but bandy, and her toes point in opposite directions. We shudder from the sight of her, but only for a moment before her warm, loving picture snaps back into place.

“You’re wrong, April,” Bogdan said. “You are freakin’ gorgeous.”

“Oh, Boggy.”

Just then a woman in a brick-black-apricot pantsuit, Charter Saurus, approached them. “Happy Rondy, April Kodiak,” she said and offered her hand.

“Do I know you?”

“Sally Saurus,” the woman said. She glanced at Bogdan and added, “I wonder if I could have a moment alone with your housemeet, young man. I have something of a personal nature to discuss with her.”

“Sure thing,” Bogdan said. “I was looking for someone anyway.”

A JERRY AND belinda team had thrown a holo cordon around the lifechair and the queue of well-wishers surrounding it. They rerouted foot traffic around them. The jerry said to Fred, “We wanted to clear him out of here, but this guy is covered by so many conflicting laws and treaties there’s no clear protocol. Gilles told us to leave ’im be till you got here.”

“That’s good,” Fred said. “MC, can you create a spot filter of negative pressure around the stinker with about a twenty-meter radius?”

I’ll do my best
, the mentar replied.

“And get this,” the jerry went on. “He’s under modified house arrest. He’s got his own monitor bee.”

“He’s a criminal?”

He’s Samson Kodiak
, Gilles said in his ear,
the joker in the Skytel the other night
.

Fred had missed the hack but had heard about it. “Say the name again.”

Samson Kodiak
.

It was too much of a coincidence for there to be two stinkers still alive, both named Samson. Fred consulted his visor to view the man’s doss. Samson P.
Harger
Kodiak. How the mighty had fallen. Fred couldn’t imagine what would cause an aff, even a seared one, to join a charter. The lifechair was too distant for him to see its occupant clearly, but his odor alone was enough to bring back a flood of memories.

“Gilles, register Myr Kodiak for VIP status.”

Sir?

“You heard me.”

VIP he is
.

With the situation well in hand, Fred lingered outside the cordon. He, too, wanted to greet Samson—for old times’ sake—but there were too many people ahead of him, and the line advanced too slowly. A chartist at the tail of the line said, “Good evening, Myr Russ. There’s no need for you to stand in line. Go to the head. People, let the good russ through.”

Fred demurred, but the chartists insisted, and he advanced to the front of the queue. Here, Samson’s odor assaulted him. After all these years, Fred had not forgotten the tang of Samson’s vile fragrance, only its potency. He had nose filters in a utility pocket but felt it would be discourteous to use them. Especially since none of the chartists did.

Soon it was Fred’s turn to greet Samson, but the chair said, “Myr Kodiak has fallen asleep. He’s bound to reawaken at any moment. You’re welcome to stay and wait, or if you must go, I would be glad to convey any message you wish to leave him.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Belt Hubert, a pithy remnant of Sam’s mentar, Hubert.”

Fred said, “Well, Belt Hubert, Myr Kodiak probably won’t remember me, but please tell him I dropped by to say my regards. My name is Fred Londenstane. I worked for him once long ago.”

As Fred spoke, he noticed a pretty little girl scrutinizing him from the other side of the lifechair. She wore a flower print jumpsuit with brown-yellow-white trim, the same colors as Samson’s clothes. She had long, lustrous mahogany hair that was worked into an intricate braid. When he returned her look, her hazel eyes did not flinch but continued to stare at him with the unnerving directness of a child.

Samson stirred in his chair. “Yes, officer?” he said. Samson had awakened, though his eyelids drooped. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, Myr Kodiak,” Fred said, “there’s nothing wrong. I stopped by to say hello. You may not remember me, but I once worked for you. It was many years ago.” Samson’s eyes grew heavier and heavier until they were shut again.

Fred continued. “It was in the Starke household when she was a governor. Right after you were seared.”

Samson’s sleepy eyes opened a slit, and he said, “You’re the russ who used to visit me in the basement. You brought me mouth mints and deodorant.”

“Yes, that was me.”

Samson struggled with the chair, trying to free a hand. “Let go of me!” he complained, and the blanket rolled back a little. He raised a skeletal arm and reached out to shake Fred’s hand. Renewed stench rippled in the air (and the hidden blue bee made a special note of this apparent iterant ally).

“You haven’t changed a bit, Fred. How was Mars?”

Mars? Fred had left the Harger household to do a five-year stint at Mars Station.

“And your wife, Corrine?” Samson said. “How is she?”

“Let me see,” Fred said, doing a quick calculation. “Corrine would be three wives ago. Right now I’m married to an evangeline named Mary Skarland.”

“An evangeline. What a charming name. I don’t believe I’ve met one of these evangelines.”

“They’re rather recent and somewhat rare,” Fred said.

“Is she here, Fred?”

“No, Myr Harger. She’s at home. I’m here on duty. Anyway, when I saw that you were here, I wanted to say hello. Also to offer my condolences for your loss.”

Samson blinked. “Henry, have I lost something?”

“I am Belt Hubert,” replied the chair, “a fraction of my former self, and Officer Londenstane is probably referring to the tragic death of your ex-wife Eleanor Starke two days ago.”

The news hit the ancient man like a train. He gulped and choked and pushed himself into a half-sitting position. “Hubert, take me to Roosevelt Clinic immediately.”

The chair’s motors revved up, and its brakes unlocked, but the girl jumped in front of it and said in a very adult tone, “Stop!”

“Kitty, is that you?”

“Yes, Sam, I’m here.”

Samson reached out over the side of the basket, and Kitty took his hand.

“Kitty, I must go. My daughter needs me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ellen, my daughter. She survived the crash. I must go be with her.”

This is where I came in, Fred thought and backed away. Outside the holo cordon he paused to sniff his hand. It stank.

BOGDAN FOLLOWS A rubberband to Troy Tobbler. If the Tobb boy happened to turn around, he’d see it stretched out on the floor behind him and either cancel it or follow it back to me.

It vibrates faster the closer we get to each other. I race along it, and it leads me to the open doors of a grand ballroom where I am stunned by a ghastly sight—the Rondy Nursery—hundreds of kids and thousands of grown-ups rubbing their heads.

Bogdan is a graduate of the Rondy Nursery, magna cum laude, having spent his first nine Rondies in them. And though that was twenty years ago, his impulse is to turn around and flee. But he spots the Beadlemyren, the two ghouls from dinner last night, standing next to the lily pond with—Bogdan discovers—Tobbler Houseer Dieter, who is handing them a toddler dressed in a bright orange-green-brown playsuit—a Tobbler toddler! The Beadlemyren attempt to bounce it, and when it begins to cry, they bounce it harder and make goo-goo faces; when it starts to shriek, they give it back to Dieter.

I weave through the crowd following my rubberband until it vibrates so fast it rumbles, and I spot him, Troy Tobbler, heading straight for the Beadlemyren. His mouth falls open and the tongue in his head begins to wag. I sprint to cut him off. The humming rubberband goes pop when we collide.

Whoa! The feck! Goldie!

Listen very carefully, Tobb. I want you to keep your big mouth shut about Hubert!

It’s enough to make him think, but only for a moment. He shoves me in the shoulder and says, Make me, Kodiak!

But I don’t shove him back. I can’t make you do anything, Troy, but there’s one thing you should think about before you say anything. If this micromine merger of ours falls through, then we won’t be leaving Chicago and we’ll be your neighbors
forever
.

That gets his attention. Even a boy can see the logic in it. So I crank it up a notch. Or even better, your charter will merge with them and
you’ll
be the ones going to Wyoming. You, Troy Tobbler, the microminer. Is that what you want?

That does the trick. I can see a parade of horrors passing through his brain. So why don’t you give the whole Hubert thing a rest and keep your fecking mouth shut.

Something in my tone? He looks suddenly defensive and says, You’re not my boss.

I know I’m not your boss, and you don’t have to listen to me, only think about what I said.

Losers
, he roars and shoves past me. I grab his arm but the ceiling lights swing by in a swoosh and
BAM!
I’m flat on my back, all breath driven from my lungs.

He stands over me and says, Don’t never touch me, Goldie.

To the left and right of us, kids are being snatched up by vigilant adults. I swivel on my back and sweep his feet from under him with my leg. He goes down but not hard and not for long and in a flash his boot sweeps across my vision and explodes in a red ball behind my nose. Hot blood is gushing from my nose.

Legs all around, adults making a pen with their bodies. I try to stand up but get all woozy and have to fall down again and sit in my own blood. And if that’s not humbling enough I lean over and add a layer of triple mondo choco-fudgy puke.

Oh, hell, says a tugger who presses a thick wad of field dressing against my face. His partner looks down at me and says, MC, we need a medic and a mop. Tuggers are big feckers, especially when you’re on the floor. Troy tries to sneak away but they grab him. Looks like you boys need some time in the penalty box.

Not the Tobbler, not the Tobbler, Dieter is shouting from outside the circle. The Kodiak started it. Punish
him
.

Just then another officer shows up, not a tugger—a pike!

Pike yells at everyone, Break it up, break it up. The TUGs tell him, We’ve got the situation in hand, officer, but he yells at them to feck off.

It’s handled, officer. No need to butt in now.

The pike whips out his wand and snaps it open. The TUGs back off and give him plenty of floor. Dieter backs off too, and the Beadlemyren have eyes round like saucers.

The pike spins me around and glues my wrists together.
Leave them alone!
roars the room.
Don’t touch them!
roar the TUGs. Troy tries to sneak away again and the pike snicks him on the butt with his wand. Just a little snick but it must be cranked up all the way because Troy falls down and flops around like a fish. Everyone is screaming genocide and I’m screaming too.

Just then another officer, a belinda, shows up and orders the pike to halt. She keeps the crowd back and shouts, Stand down, Rudy, that’s an order. But the pike twists Troy’s arm behind his back and glues it way up high to his opposite shoulder. Then he lifts him up by the arm and Troy is all crazy-eyed.