Counting Heads (49 page)

Kitty sat on a bench next to the chair. “Was he awake when you got here?” she said.

“Yes,” said Belt Hubert.

The canvas before her filled her entire field of view. Four large slashes of black paint divided five slanting fields of raw, chaotic color built up in dozens of layers. It looked to Kitty like a recording of neural frenzy.

“I wasn’t aware that Sam was an artist,” Belt Hubert said. “I am researching him on the WAD. He was quite famous.” Kitty seemed confused, and Belt Hubert explained: “I contain Sam’s history only in outline form and only for the last twenty years.”

“Why don’t you access his archives?”

“I don’t possess the access codes. Hubert has them.”

“I see. Well, this picture predates Hubert. It even predates Skippy.”

“Who is Skippy?”

“You, I think. Sam’s valet when I first met him, before there were mentars. Sam was still an artist then. Or at least he painted a portrait. It was much better than this—this mess. He showed it to me when he hired me.”

“Hired you to do what?”

Kitty tousled the few sprigs of hair remaining on Samson’s sleepy head, then stretched out on the padded bench and rested her head in her arms. “I was a grownup then. I had earned a degree in microhab landscape engineering, which is a fancy term for flower gardening for rich people. I started my own microhab maintenance service and was building my client base. My first big break was this gig for some affs high in an RT. They had a gorgeous little boreal rain forest microhab in a twelve-cubic-meter glassine bubble, with a fully self-contained atmosphere and hydrosphere. It was a little gem, with fiddlehead ferns, mushrooms, lichen, moss, devil’s club, a half-dozen kinds of berries, wild cucumber, and dwarf Sitka spruce—you name it—monkeyflower, spring beauty, saxifrage. It had many edible varieties, and my clients used it as an exotic salad and herb garden. It even had some fauna: mosquitoes, spiders, voles, birds. Quite the balancing act keeping it all in harmony. I was up there almost every day working on it.

“One day I was programming the resident scuppers—you couldn’t actually go inside the hab, and you had to do everything by remote—and there was a loud party in progress in a condo across the sun shaft. I didn’t pay it any attention until I smelled this really foul odor. I panicked because I thought there was something wrong with the hab. But the smell was coming from across the sun shaft.

“There was this sickly looking man leaning on the railing watching me. He’d come out from the party and was all alone. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him. He had me tell him the Latin names for all of the species in the hab, and he said he might hire me to do his own atrium. He said, ‘Give me some time to think about it.’

“Well, the next time I returned, all his windows were opaqued. They stayed that way for a long time—years. Eventually I forgot about him. I was very busy; I had so much work that I employed four of my housemeets to help keep up. Kodiak was still a real charter then. Also, I had just discovered retroaging and how much fun it is. At first I was afraid my microhab business would suffer if I was a kid, but just the opposite happened. The younger I got, the better my business. There’s something about little girls and flowers that’s magical.

“So ten years go by—
ten years
—and I’m up in the RT tending the boreal microhab as usual—it was quadrupled in size by then—and I notice the windows across the way are clear. I figure the place has been sold or something, but no, the door opens and out comes the same stinky fellow. He looks at the hab and then at me, and he says, ‘Well, I’ve thought about it. When can you start?’”

“That’s quite a story,” Belt Hubert said.

“You bet.” Kitty jumped off the bench and headed for the exit. “Come on. Let’s go to the park. I can at least get a half day of work in. He’ll sleep through it.”

THROUGH STEALTH AND patience, the Blue Team passed through the gatehouse into the clinic grounds without detection. Once inside, the Blue Team bee’s comm with LOG2 was cut, and it was once more operating on its own recognizance. It quickly located the prize. The bee took up a covert position overlooking a transparent container full of a liquid biomass conductor in which the prize was suspended. The bee sent its escort on a series of solo reconnaissance flights to explore and map the compound. Each time the wasp returned, it dumped its data to the bee.

The bee, meanwhile, analyzed the clinic’s command and control structure, the various local nets, and the olfactory and mote broadcasting systems. It paid special attention to the campus simiverse and diverse hollyholo population. It mined its growing pool of data and fed it to its scenario mill to determine the best way to facilitate the prize’s liberation. The difficulty of its task was compounded by huge gaps in its knowledge base. The prize was attached to unknown machinery. Human workers of unknown friendliness reached into its container and applied unknown objects to it. Chemicals of unknown composition bubbled through the liquid conductor. Meanwhile, a holofied simulacrum of the prize expressed human distress with an uninterrupted cry. Any or all of this might be sinister and require counteraction, but Blue Team Bee could not judge for itself, and since it could not contact LOG2, it did nothing but create a blind spot atop a ceiling beam in the cottage where it hid. From its invisible vantage point, it monitored clinic chatter and waited for some overt action threshold to be crossed.

It had been forty-eight hours since Fred launched the
Book of Russ
, and he was curious about its reception by russdom. He could have checked on it from anywhere with his skullcap and visor, but that would require Marcus’s intercession. So, although it was his day off, he returned to the BB of R for a fresh datapin and a quiet booth. Marcus provided these with no comment. Checking the
HUL
stats in the booth, Fred was at first encouraged to learn that his
Book of Russ
had already been seen by over one hundred thousand russes. However, none of these many russes had seen fit to add their own threads or tails to it. Nor, indeed, bothered to post a rebuttal. It was as though his true confession had sunk without a ripple. He had not expected to change russ attitudes overnight, but to be totally ignored?

Fred sifted through the entire
HUL
and found only three hits on him or his effort. One was posted in a public square, and two more were clipped to it. Fred steeled himself and opened them.

The first one said, “Seriously, Londenstane, seek professional help.” It was signed, “A Concerned Brother, Batch 16BA.”

The other two were authored by “Anon” and read simply, “Ditto.”

“Ditto” was not a word that iterants used in polite discourse, and its appearance here felt like a slap in the face. Was there
no
other russ out there who felt as he did? Was he the only one? Fred pulled the datapin from the player and dropped it into his pocket. He left the booth and told Marcus he wanted to use the null room.

“Certainly,” said Marcus. “The first opening I have is Saturday noon for thirty minutes.”

“What are my chances of a cancellation this afternoon?”

“I can put you at the top of the waiting list.”

Fred went to the canteen and drank coffee and got himself caught up on skullcap news. A couple of hours later, Marcus told him to go to the null room ready area; a fifteen-minute slot had opened up.

“That’s good,” Fred said. “Listen, Marcus, I want you to make me a special datapin. I want an E-Pluribus model of the russ germline.”

“What batch?” Marcus asked.

“All batches. The entire line, compiled up to the minute.”

“That’s an expensive request.”

“It’s a covered expense.”

“Certainly, it is,” Marcus said, “but usually covered only in conjunction with psychiatric care. Would you like me to arrange an autopsyche session, Myr Londenstane?”

“No, just the pin, thanks.” Fred went to the ready area where the E-Pluribus datapin awaited him, still warm, in the wall dispenser.

There were four other russes in the ready area. They sat in pairs as far away from each other as the small space allowed. A dispute settlement, Fred surmised. Russes tended to resolve their personal differences in-house. The four of them nodded a greeting to Fred as he sat in a chair between them.

A minute later, the on-deck light came on, and the four russes rose to prepare to enter the null room lock. They drank the expressing visola and divested themselves of caps, visors, batons, shoes, and anything else they didn’t want to risk losing to the anti-nano. They left their things on open shelves.

The russes began to scratch themselves through their clothes. “What the hell,” said one of them, drawing his sleeve and raising his beefy arm to the light. He scrutinized his skin from several nose lengths away. “They’re abandoning the mothership,” he said, as though he could actually see the nits. “They’re fleeing the rice paddies.”

“My God, but it itches,” said one of the others.

“Scratching only prolongs it,” said a third.

The first russ lowered his sleeve and said, “Such a deal.”

Fred said, “But you gotta agree, it beats the hell out of the slugs.”

“The jury’s still out on that, brother,” the russ said and glanced at Fred’s name badge. His face went suddenly blank, and he turned away without another word. He and the other russes climbed into the lock, but not before each took a quick peek at Fred. Fred was too surprised to react.

Whatever dispute the foursome brought into the null room was quickly resolved, and in only twenty minutes, the on-deck light came on again.

“They were booked for thirty,” Marcus said. “I will tack the remaining time to your session.”

“Thank you, Marcus.” Fred opened a pouch of visola and drank it down. Almost at once his head began to itch as his skullcap retracted its microvilli from his scalp. The skullcap came off in congealed lumps, which he combed into the sink. Fred waited for his whole body to begin to itch as the nits crawled out of his skin, but it didn’t happen. He hadn’t been colonized yet. The HALVENE.

Fred cycled through the lock and entered the null room. The BB of R null room wasn’t much larger than the table and four chairs it contained. One wall was a builtin kulinmate, and the opposite wall contained a curtained-off comfort station. Wasting no time, Fred sealed the hatch, took a seat, and inserted his datapin into the player. A quicksilver E-Pluribus Everyperson, quarter-life-size, appeared on the tabletop. It bowed and awaited Fred’s instruction.

“Give me two russ sims,” Fred said. “Make one a composite of the total russ population. Make the second a subset of the fringes of russdom.”

Everyperson faded away as two life-size russ sims appeared sitting at the table on either side of Fred. Both had the typically hefty build, brown hair, and round-nosed moon face of Fred’s type. He didn’t know which was the mainstream russ and which the fringer. Both sims were typically alarmed as they sorted out their sudden existence, and Fred spoke to put them at ease.

“We’re in the BB of R null room on North Wabash in Chicago. I’m real, and you guys are sims. My name is Fred, Batch 2B.”

“Hey, Fred,” said the sim to his left, coming up to speed. “I’m Rick, uh—all batches, I suppose.”

“And I’m Bob,” said the other. “All batches rolled into one.”

“Good, good, guys,” Fred said. “Listen, I cast you up to help me answer some vexing questions.”

“What kind of questions are they, Fred?” Rick said.

“Vexing, obviously,” Bob said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Fred said. “Things that have been eating at me. I was hoping you guys could help me shed some light.”

“Be happy to try,” said Rick, and Bob nodded agreement.

“Thanks. Here goes: Have either of you ever done anything or said anything and then thought, Hey, that wasn’t very russlike of me?”

The two sims thought about it a moment, and Bob said, “What kind of thing, exactly?”

“Anything,” said Fred. “The way you conduct your duty or interact with your wife. The kind of vid you choose to watch or music or what booze you like or swear words you use. Hell, the way you shave yourself. Anything at all.”

Fred watched the shutters drop over his brothers’ eyes. “Come on, guys, don’t do that to me,” he said. “This is serious. I need your help, and this is a null room we’re in. I’m going to nuke your pin before I leave, so whatever you say stays here. I promise. Can’t you help a brother out?”

The appeal worked, and Rick said, “Can’t say that I’ve ever been embarrassed or self-conscious, or whatever, of anything I’ve ever said or done—outside the usual small stuff.”

“Thank you, Rick,” Fred said. “Thank you for that.” He turned to Bob.

Bob said, “I’m a russ, Fred. Therefore,
anything
I do is, by definition, russlike.”

“Fair enough,” Fred said, encouraged by Bob’s bit of solipsism—russes weren’t known to spout philosophy. “Tell me this, Bob. Have you ever just let go and said whatever came into your head without censoring it first?”

Bob chuckled and said, “You mean when I’m not drunk?”

Bob’s expression froze in mid-grin, and a moment later Rick’s went blank as well.

There was a long moment of excruciating silence, and then Rick said mildly, “Uh, Londenstane? You must be suffering an intolerable level of stress right now. Maybe you need a vacation? You should talk to Marcus about taking some time off.”

“I agree,” said Bob. “Take a long vacation.”

Fred sighed and said, “Thanks, guys. I’ll do that.” He deleted the sims, and Everyperson returned. Fred took a moment to formulate his next request and said, “This time, make me a composite of any russes who would actually want to contribute to the
Book of Russ
.”

Everyperson shrugged its shoulders. In the center of its chest burned the glyph for
No Matches—Try Again?

“Screw it,” Fred said and pressed the button on the player to irradiate the datapin. Everyperson abruptly vanished. Fred took the expensive pin from the player and held it up. The tiny bulb of paste at its heart was cooked. He dropped it into his pocket and fished around for the other one. He still had a few minutes of null-room time left, so he opened the
Book of Russ
and added a new entry: “To my brothers cloned: Your response to this book is just plain sad. By the way, I was completely sober when I recorded it. Since none of you has seen fit to add your own observations, I offer the following list for your consideration:

“One, we russes are created with emotional muzzles locked to our personalities. I have removed mine.

“Two, although we often complain about the strictures of Applied People’s confidentiality policy, we actually
prefer
it that way because it reinforces our own inability to communicate.

“Three, why shouldn’t we be attracted to hinks? We’re men, right? No offense to our sisters, but why should we only find lulus, evangelines, and jennys appealing? Why do johns pine only for janes and juanitas, steves only for kellys, and jeromes only for jeromes? This strikes me as deliberate genetic programming, not any natural human sexual response. Our ur-brother, Thomas A., kept lists of women he desired to screw.
He
was attracted to a variety of women. And we’re not? Why is that?

“And finally, why don’t
we
own the patents to our own genome? Why is our genetic recipe the property of Applied People? Shouldn’t it belong to us? At least, shouldn’t we have a say in how it’s expressed?

“These are only a few of the questions I have. Suck on them for a while, my brothers. Signed: Fred Londenstane, Batch 2B.”

ALL THURSDAY AFTERNOON, the medtechs came in, and the medtechs went out. They fiddled obsessively with the tank, controller, and jacket, but Ellen Starke’s condition only worsened through the afternoon. The only positive thing they accomplished, it seemed to Mary, was to turn down the volume of the jacket’s breathless, pitiful cry.

The jenny Hattie visited in the late afternoon to tell Mary and Renata about a little meditation booth near the dining commons that had a decent grief program in case they needed a good cry. Starke was not expected to survive the night.

Quitting time was the quarter hour of french fries, an aroma guaranteed to send tired day workers home in search of dinner. But there was the trace of another, strange odor in the gatehouse. It was ripe and revolting, and Mary realized that it was the same odor that Fred had brought home on his skin and hair last night. The old coot in the Skytel.

At the outer pressure gate, she asked Reilly about the odor.

“I’m surprised you can still smell it,” he said. “We scoured this place pretty good.”

“But what
is
it?”

Reilly only shrugged; confidentiality was confidentiality.

Mary wished Reilly a pleasant evening, but he was getting off shift too, and he offered to accompany her and Renata to the train station. As they walked down the drive to the street, Mary picked up the odor here and there in the hedge.

At home she got a message from Fred who said he’d be late. She dialed up a pasta dish and ate it on the couch in front of the flatscreen. She searched the WAD and Evernet for background on the man who had appeared on the Skytel. Most of the stories were dated—he had been a celebrity of sorts in the last century—and these turned out to be what she was looking for.

Mary watched an old clip of the wedding ceremony of Samson P. Harger and Eleanor K. Starke in 2092. They were young, beautiful, and strong. Starke, especially, had a remarkable face, with wildly extravagant eyebrows. Samson looked dashing in a charcoal-gray tux. He exhibited a certain cockiness. He was an artist and package designer of note. This was right before his run-in with a homcom slug and his subsequent undoing. He was one of the first people ever seared—hence the odor. Some years later he joined a charter. That was how Fred had run into him last night.

Mary watched the clip of Samson’s arrest by slug and bloomjumpers at an outdoor café. The other patrons stampeded away, his wife among them.

There were no pictures of the three of them together: mother, stepfather, and baby Ellen, but from what information Mary could glean, her client in the tank at Roosevelt Clinic had lived with the stinker for a short period of time during her infancy.

“Call Wee Hunk,” she said.

The little muscle-bound persona appeared before the couch and said, “Good evening, Myr Skarland. What can I do for you?”

“You asked us to keep our eyes and ears open,” she replied, “and to report anything unusual or suspicious.”

“Yes?”

“It might be nothing,” she said, “but when I was leaving the clinic by the South Gate today, I smelled something strange.”

“Yes, I heard your exchange with the guard. You smelled the odor of a seared individual who was turned away from the clinic.” An aerial view appeared on the flatscreen of a girl and lifechair traveling in circles on the greensmoat.

Mary said, “But he’s Ellen’s
stepfather
. Why is Concierge obstructing his visit?”

Wee Hunk seemed impressed with her information. “The doctors assure us that it’s too late for visitors to have any effect on Ellen’s condition, and we have no cause to doubt them in that regard.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try? And why was he turned away in the first place? Doesn’t he have a right to see his daughter?”

“So many questions,” Wee Hunk said. “Without intruding on family privacy, allow me to just say that it’s a long story. But when Ellen wakes up, we’ll add her stepfather’s name to her FDO list. Until then, there is very little his presence would help.”