Counting Heads (50 page)

MEEWEE TRAILED BEHIND Wee Hunk and an arbeitor to the null suite next to the bunker shelter. “I still don’t see why I need to go in,” he said. “It’ll strip me of my implants, which will take weeks to regenerate.”

“Trust me, Bishop, it’s necessary,” the caveman replied. When they reached the in-lock, the hatch irised open. The Starke null suite was no economy model, and its locks could accommodate a dozen people at once. But Meewee entered alone, the mentar stayed out in the hallway, and the arbeitor entered only long enough to deposit a paste canister on a shelf.

“See you in a couple of hours,” Wee Hunk said from the hallway. When the hatch shut, and Meewee was alone, the mentar reappeared and said, “Please challenge my integrity.” Wee Hunk was now a miniature man, lounging in a miniature armchair next to the paste canister on the shelf. Meewee was perplexed; he had just challenged the mentar in the bunker shelter, but since this was a backup, which was cut off from its prime, he did so, and it passed.

“You should get into the habit of challenging me every few minutes from now on,” Wee Hunk said.

“Why so often?”

“Let’s just call it a precaution.”

The in-lock utilized gas instead of expressing visola to purge bodies of machinery. The gas process took much longer, but it was surer and gentler on living tissue, and it made Meewee drowsy. He lay on a couch and fell asleep. He was awakened by the noise of the inner hatch unbolting. An arbeitor entered from inside the null suite and handed him a chilled liter bottle of Orange Flush. Then it lifted the paste canister from the shelf and went into the suite, with Wee Hunk and his armchair floating behind.

Meewee followed them to a large conference room where dozens of machines were busily assembling other machines. Meewee looked around and tried to make sense of the carts, cartons, and crates. When he saw the empty hernandez tank, he said, “Ah, our clinic.” He did a double take when he noticed a woman among the toiling machines.

This was apparently the reaction Wee Hunk was waiting for, because he chortled and said, “Bishop Meewee, I’d like to introduce Dr. Rouselle.”

The doctor came over to shake his hand. “The honor is mine, Myr Meewee,” she said. She was an imposing woman, a couple of heads taller than the former bishop.

Wee Hunk said, “The only way I could entice Dr. Rouselle to leave her Birthplace post in Ethiopia to be smuggled here to save the life of one little rich girl was to assure her that you personally required it.”

“Thank you for coming,” Meewee said, “but tell me, what is Birthplace doing with a revivification specialist in patch fly country?”

“I am there for running the sterilization universal,” the doctor said.

“Dr. Rouselle,” Wee Hunk explained, “gave up a lucrative reviv practice in Geneva to volunteer for Birthplace’s campaign to stamp out human reproduction. Thus she’s both qualified and unfettered by obligations to the Fagan Group. And as far as I can ascertain, no one knows she’s here except us.”

The doctor led her visitors on a brief tour of the nascent clinic and assured them she would be ready to receive her special patient in about a week.

“We don’t have a week, Doctor,” Wee Hunk said. “You’ll have to be ready by tomorrow.”

The doctor shook her head. “But it is testing and to calibrate and season the amnio fluid,” she complained.

The little caveman got out of his floating armchair and grew to life-size. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, “and don’t forget the portable tank.”

She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the bottle of Orange Flush that Meewee hadn’t yet opened. “The kidneys are desiring this, Myr Meewee.”

He assured her he would drink it, and he and Wee Hunk took their leave and went to an empty conference room. Wee Hunk said, “Your name opened the door, Bishop, but what clinched the deal was my promise to buy her a complete peripatetic field hospital. Our doctor drives a hard bargain.”

Meewee opened the bottle of diuretic and drained it. He sat at the conference table and belched. “You mentioned a portable tank,” he said. “Does that mean you finally have a plan of action?”

Wee Hunk took a seat opposite him. “Yes, and now that we’re here, I can run it by you.”

ON THE WAY back to the locks an hour later, Wee Hunk said, “Don’t forget to challenge me repeatedly, Bishop.”

“I will.”

The former bishop entered the out-lock, but the arbeitor remained in the suite with Wee Hunk’s paste canister. “Aren’t you coming out with me?” Meewee said.

“No, I’ll remain here.”

“But you can’t communicate with your prime from in here.”

“That’s a small matter.”

Meewee nodded. “What should I tell you out there? Did you know you were going to stay inside?”

“Not really, but don’t say anything. I’ll figure it out.”

The inner hatch did not close, and after a few moments, Meewee said, “Was there something else?”

“Yes,” the caveman replied. “There’s something I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you.”

When he did not continue, Meewee prompted him, “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“A hole in one,” replied the mentar. “But given the situation, I suppose I have no choice. Have you ever wondered why Eleanor named your mentar Arrow?”

“Not really. I always took it to be one of those childish names like Spike or Fluffy that people like to give pets. Or, no offense, like your own name.”

“Ellen named me when she was a child, but Eleanor named Arrow, and Eleanor possessed too literal a temperament to misname anything.”

“What’s your point?”

“A couple of days ago, when I told you that I don’t know Cabinet’s kill code, I was telling the truth. But Cabinet might have mine, or might have had it before it lost the ability to use Starkese. It occurs to me that Arrow might have everyone’s, including my own. Something to keep in mind.”

AFTER LEAVING THE BB of R, Fred tubed across town to the Longyear Center. On the way he installed a new skullcap on his head. He had removed his name patch, and the russes he passed along the way paid no special attention to him.

Longyear Center, stripped of its stylish pretensions, was nothing more than a tank farm for the middle class, which apparently included UDJD employees. In the lobby he told the guard on duty that he wanted to visit Heloise Costa. The guard was a russ.

“Certainly, myr,” the guard said, but when Fred swiped the sign-in medallion, he gave Fred a second look. Fred could see the wheels turning in his brother’s head: So
this
is the guy, and
that’s
his hink. But all he said was, “Here’s your usher line, Myr Londenstane.”

Fred strolled tiled corridors that separated vast wards containing thousands of hernandez tanks arranged in ranks and rows. He, himself, had once spent an unmemorable fortnight in one of these, recovering from a bad laser burn.

Fred followed the usher line to Ward 286D. Several times he had to step aside to make way for trains of medbeitors and carts. He followed the usher line to a cubicle and stepped through its privacy curtain. The cubicle was only slightly larger than the tank and controller that occupied it. The tank was full of a thick purplish growth medium within which was suspended the reassembled body of Inspector Costa.

She was either asleep or off in some jacketscape. Her skin still clearly showed where she had been sliced into five pieces by plasma rings. The seams were bright red; the major one ran from the tip of her right shoulder diagonally down her chest to the knob of her left hip. It had cut a breast in two, just below the nipple. Her snatch, he couldn’t help but notice, was tufted with ordinary curly brunette hair, and Fred realized that he’d expected it to be shaved into a heart or fleur-de-lis or some such exotic shape like a lulu’s. Costa was no lulu.

Hernandez tanks weren’t exactly erotic settings, and nude bodies floating in them tended to resemble lab specimens more than sex muffins, but Fred was impressed by how thoroughly turned off he was at the sight of Costa’s nakedness.

When he looked up again, she was watching him.
Hello, Londenstane
, she said and opaqued the bottom half of her tank.
So nice of you to visit
.

“I wanted to see if they found all the right pieces,” he said.

I believe they have, though some of them don’t work as well as they used to
.

“Give it time.”

Oh, I know. I’ve only been in here three days, and it feels like a prison term
.

There followed an awkward silence, and Fred realized they had absolutely nothing to talk about. She was a hink. He was a clone. End of story. They spent a few more excruciating minutes exchanging small talk, and then he wished her a speedy recovery and left. Retracing his steps to the lobby, he wondered if that was all it had been, her superficial resemblance to a lulu.

There were two russes at the registration desk when he exited, and their eyes followed him out the door and all the way to the pedway.

Riding in the bead car home, Fred said, “Marcus?”

Yes, Londenstane?

“Marcus, I was wondering—”

I’m listening
.

Fred was wondering whether it would do any good to delete the—he couldn’t even say it to himself—what a pretentious name—the
Book of Russ
—so apocryphal-sounding. “Marcus, can I delete the entries I made to our
Heads-Up Log
over the last few days?”

Ordinarily, no
.

“Ordinarily?”

Do you no longer espouse the views you expressed there?

“I don’t know. I may have been confused.”

In that case, something might be possible. We may be able to do more than simple deletion
.

“Explain.”

We believe you may be suffering a mild form of HALVENE intoxication as a result of your duty on Monday. Such reactions have been known to cause aberrant thoughts and loss of judgment. If a healthscan bears this out in your case, we would be able to not only delete the entire
Book of Russ,
but expurgate it
.

“What does that mean?”

In its place we would substitute an explanation of the injury you suffered in the line of duty. Brothers would be advised to disregard your previous statements as having been beyond your control
.

Fred could hardly believe his ears. In one stroke they could make it all go away. “You can really do this?”

Yes, contingent on the results of the healthscan, which you may undergo at any time. Would you like me to schedule you an appointment?

“Yes! The sooner the better.”

In that case I am diverting your car to MEDFAC now
.

AT THE MEDFAC facility, they were expecting him. The charge nurse, a jenny, pointed to a door and said, “Go piddle in booth twelve.” He did and when he came out, she said, “That’s all for now. Your Marcus will contact you with the results.”

Fred felt like a new man.

FRED BURST INTO the apartment and cried, “Mary, guess what.”

“Screen off,” Mary said, and the living room flatscreen went dark, but not before Fred caught a glimpse of a park scene, a bee’s-eye view of crowds, benches, trees—a lifechair. “Yes?” Mary said. She was dressed to go out, and she wore a valet broach on her lapel.

“Never mind that. What are
you
up to?”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh, nothing, Fred. I’ve had a rough day, and I’m going for a walk in the park.”

“I’ve had a rough day too,” Fred said. “I’ll go with you.”

“I thought you had the day off. Why don’t you stay here and have some dinner. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll eat park food.”

THEY PASSED TENNIS courts, skating rinks, and equestrian trails. In an open field, a sky-holo competition was under way. Brilliant, melting landscapes of fairy castles filled cubic acres of airspace. The artists stood under their creations, boldly slashing the sky with their arms, flinging meadows and forests and dragons into place.

The fourth tier of Millennium Park had a Busker’s Cross where two busy footpaths intersected. It was crowded with park-goers and street performers. Mary and Fred hurried past the Machete Death Grudge and their blood-soaked stage. Nearby, under an American elm, was parked a solitary lifechair. Fred offered Mary a package of nose filters, but she declined. She realized her mistake a moment later as they approached the chair. It was
the
odor, all right, the one she sought, but a thousand times stronger than she could have imagined. By the time they reached the chair, vomit tickled the back of her throat. Maybe that was why he wasn’t so welcome at the clinic.

When she first saw the stinker, lying in the basket of his lifechair, Mary doubted that anyone who looked like that could possibly be alive. But he was, or at least his eyes were. His piebald head reminded her of his stepdaughter’s skull in the tank.

“Hello again, Myr Kodiak,” Fred said. “It’s Fred Londenstane. And this is my wife, Mary Skarland, who I told you about last night.”

The lifechair, not the man, replied, “Samson says, Good evening, myren. Have we met?”

“Yes, last night, at Rondy,” Fred repeated.

“I, of course, remember you, Commander Londenstane,” said the chair, “but Sam’s mind is wandering a little. And he tells me to roll over to that bench so the two of you can sit comfortably.”

“There’s no need,” Mary said. “Besides, the bench is occupied.”

The old man cackled, and the chair said, “Sam says, Believe me, it’ll be free by the time we reach it.”

And so it was. The woman and man occupying it fled before they were halfway there. Mary sat on the abandoned bench and gave Fred a look.

Fred said, “I think I’ll go stretch my legs.”

“Sam says, Why not go stand next to Kitty’s pay post. Prime the pump with a millionth; the gawkers there can’t seem to figure it out for themselves.”

“Your housemeet is here?” Fred said. He had walked right past her thinking she was a park statue. Fred went back along the path to look at her. Even up close it was hard to dispel the illusion. She wore the costume of a ballerina, with white tights and tutu, white slippers and ribbons, and a white tiara crowning her head. Her hair, skin, and nails were also white. Even the irises of her eyes were white. She was an alabaster statue, arms arched gracefully over her head, one leg bent slightly at the knee, most of her weight supported on her toes. Her trembling calf muscles broke the illusion, and Fred knew how much strength it took to hold such a pose.