Authors: David Marusek
The GOV seemed to fall away below them as Fred put everything he had into his arms and legs. The mirrorlike underside of the lake surface was tauntingly close when his air supply gave out. By then they’d risen enough for the raft to fill out, and soon it was racing for the surface with the two men in tow. Fred exhaled a seemingly endless breath of decompressing air from his lungs. They were rising too fast, he knew, and might suffer the bends when they surfaced, but there was nothing to do about that now.
At least the crib was safely distant, and the GOV a mere toy car. It struck the manifold ribworks and broke apart like a rotten egg, spilling its deadly yolk into the aquifer.
Fred thought, Drink
that
, Chicago.
When they broke the surface, Fred opened his face mask and sucked in sweet lungsful of air. Reilly floated faceup next to him. His eyelids and lips were blue, and Fred fished in his cargo pocket for a laser pen. He would have to cut the mask off Reilly and start mouth to mouth.
Three blobs of blue fell into the water next to Fred, and it took him a panicky moment to recognize them as a Technical Escort Team in gummysuits. A decon ambulance hovered a few meters overhead. A voice rang out from it, “Relax, Commander. We’ll take it from here.”
AT THE PORT Authority Decon Unit, Fred lay at the bottom of a two-thousand-liter HALVENE tank. He had plenty of time to relax as the concentrated lipoprotein solvent permeated his body. It flushed him of the dead crap that the VIS-37 visola had killed and the live crap it had missed.
Fred lay perfectly still, not even breathing. There was no need to breathe: the HALVENE was capable of oxygenating his cells. It was best not to move at all, for the cellular bonds of his tissues were loosened. Violent motion, such as gagging or coughing, could literally shake him to pieces. Besides, it felt good not to breathe. He’d never realized what an effort breathing took.
FRED’S PALLET AT the bottom of the tank began to rise. Apparently, he was done, stripped, clean. The pallet lifted him a couple of centimeters out of the HALVENE bath and stopped. The solvent streamed out of him as though he were a sopping rag hung out to dry. He was saturated with the stuff and weighed three times normal. They’d leave him here to drip dry until his weight returned to twenty percent over normal. Then it would be safe for him to move. This might take another hour. Plenty of time for second-guessing.
Fred was besieged by self-doubt. He found himself dwelling on things he’d never given a second thought to before. Like this hinky woman, Costa.
Fred stopped himself right there. They warned you about having woodies in the HALVENE tank. You could literally burst your plumbing.
So he thought about his little private chat with Cabinet at the lake. What exactly had it expected to accomplish by singling him out? Did it actually think he would betray his duty? Russes were extraordinarily loyal to their duty. This was what made them an invaluable asset in the security sector. And it was the reason why his urbrother, Thomas A., was chosen a century ago to serve as donor for the very first line of commercially developed clones. The original russ, Secret Service Special Agent Thomas A. Russ, had thrown himself on a carpet mine in the Oval Office to save the life of President Taksayer in 2034 during the fifth assassination attempt against her in a one-week period.
The grateful president, bloodied but undaunted, scooped up a gob of Thomas A.’s brains in a cracked china cup with the presidential seal and proclaimed to the media, “If loyalty can be cloned, let this be its template.” Thus were the commercial clone treaties passed, and such was the standard every russ strove to imitate. So what was Cabinet’s game?
Obviously, the mentar was in a tight spot with Starke’s daughter; it was clutching at smoke and would do anything to protect her. But what did it mean when it said that he was an
exceptional
russ, that he possessed traits unusual for a russ? It should have come right out and said it—he had fallen out of type—for that was what it was implying. And Cabinet made this assertion based on what? his six-month stint in the Starke household forty years ago?
Fred shook his head, spilling HALVENE from his ears. His hunch was that it was all bluff. Cabinet didn’t really imagine that it could sway him. It was a stab in the dark. Surely, that was all it was.
On the other hand, how did you really know what a mentar was thinking? Though the mentar brain was modeled on a human original, it was still an alien thing. Fred knew the typical hi-index specs, and since he didn’t have anywhere to go, he listed them: axodendritic neurons ten times richer in microtubules (generating a hundred times the quantum flux per cubic millimeter) with no need for ionic pumps to create a voltaic differential (almost eliminating the latency period between neural firings), and a thousand times the density of synaptic junctions (that could close their synaptic gaps completely for brief periods of hardwired, superfast cognition). The mentar paste was more complex, stable, redundant, flexible, and robust than his own sloppy grayware. It could distribute its attention units to cover thousands of cognition tasks simultaneously. It could interface directly with an array of electronic devices: archives, cams and emitters, arbeitors, and superluminary and quantum processors. It could be stored, backed up, and mirrored. It could freely migrate to different media. The various subunits of the mentar brain slept in shifts and could watch itself dream. It never took vacations, never got sick, never had a documented case of headache. And with the exception of Marcus, any mentar that Fred met was more likely to be his boss rather than the other way around.
But what if he was, in fact, falling out of type? What if he was suffering from the dreaded “clone fatigue” that everyone was jabbering about lately? How would he know? Who could he ask? Marcus? If he so much as breathed a word of his self-doubts to the brotherhood mentar, it would force him to undergo psychiatric evaluation, something to avoid. Perhaps he could do his own research without telling Marcus. There were whole libraries dedicated to the russ germline: genanalyses, life performance studies, behavioral studies, biographies, as well as a substantial body of popular vids. He could research all aspects of himself, at least from an outside perspective. Russes weren’t into self-analysis, and why was that? As far as Fred knew, no russ had ever set down a first-person account of what it was like to be a russ. Other types did. Evangelines published poetry. Every evangeline did this, even Mary. To write poetry was an urge rooted at the core of their germline. And lulus kept a history, too, of sorts. They hosted bawdy burlesques for their salon on the WAD, which people actually
paid
to access. Even the jeromes, the tight-ass, bean-counting jeromes like Gilles, kept a history. Or at least that was the rumor. They had a so-called
Book of Jerome
to which any jerome could contribute and which only jeromes could access. And of course there were the famous, but equally exclusive, Jenny Boards.
The russes had their
Heads-Up Log
, it was true. The
HUL
was a sort of history, maybe. Fred decided he’d have to spend some time browsing through it at the BB of R Hall. It might shed some light.
ENOUGH HALVENE DRAINED from Fred’s body so that his brain stem registered hypoxia, and his lungs spontaneously resumed breathing. It surprised him; he’d grown used to not breathing. With breathing came the ability to speak out loud, and the mentar Nicholas took this opportunity to ask him how he felt.
Fred had to gently hack and spit a little before he could answer. “I’m fine,” he said at last. “How’s Reilly Dell?”
“I’m sorry, Myr Londenstane, but that’s privileged information.”
So it was back to Myr Londenstane. His shift as HomCom commander was over, and with it his privileges to information. He’d have to wait and see Reilly himself, and even then they wouldn’t be free to discuss today’s action. The damned Applied People client confidentiality oath.
Fred said, “Let me speak to him.”
“That’s not possible at the moment.” This probably meant they were still patching him up.
“What time is it?”
“Fifteen-ten.”
“So early?”
Marcus joined the conversation. “Don’t worry, Fred,” it said. “You will be paid for a full duty cycle
plus
combat differential
plus
a decontamination bonus.”
“Yippee,” Fred said. “I should do this more often.”
The mentars made no reply, perhaps because they didn’t register his sarcasm, or perhaps because they did. In any case, if they weren’t going to tell him what he most wanted to know—Reilly’s condition—then he didn’t feel like talking to them. He felt like hell, actually. Like he’d been swimming in acetone. He could only imagine what Reilly must feel like.
FRED TOYED WITH the notion of writing the true history of russdom. He wasn’t actually going to do it—that would be proof positive that he’d jumped the tracks, but as he lay suspended over the Decon Port Authority swamp tank, it was an interesting mental exercise. This was how he would begin:
To my cloned brothers: from our first days in russ school, we are trained to lay down our lives for our employers, but have we ever stopped to ask—are they worthy of us?
THE PALLET FERRIED him to the catwalk. He pulled himself to his feet and held the railing until the vertigo passed. There were five dozen HALVENE tanks in this room, none of them now occupied. The escort team must have taken Reilly to a critical care room, one with hernandez tanks, in order to repair his injuries while douching him.
Fred padded to the dressing room. On a bench was a freshly extruded Applied People teal and brown jumpsuit, shoes, and a belt, all his size. The belt had a valet buckle. He’d have to use it or a skullcap until the HALVENE had dissipated from his tissues and he could grow a new inbody comm system. For that matter, since the solvent had removed his good nano, as well as the bad, he’d have to go through the whole time-consuming balancing act of reintroducing colonies of homeostats into his metabolism. A decon bonus didn’t even start to cut it for him.
Fred picked up the jumpsuit. There was no point in taking a shower—he was already cleaner than clean. And he would smell of HALVENE for the next week in any case. He turned at a sound behind him, expecting to see Reilly. But it was a woman. It was UDJD Probate Inspector Costa. He covered himself with a towel, more out of pique than modesty.
“Myr Londenstane,” she said, “it’s nice to see you up and around and no worse for wear. I wanted to drop by and personally assure myself of your condition.”
“What about Lieutenant Dell?” The question just slipped out, but Costa was under no Applied People confidentiality constraints. What she chose to divulge was her and her agency’s business.
“Dell’s doing fine. He’s in rapid tissue regeneration. He’ll need some new leg muscles.”
“Thank you. I’m good, then,” Fred said and glanced down at his bare feet. He was standing in a small puddle of HALVENE that had pooled inside his feet and was leaking from between his toes.
“What about all that hot shit that got sucked into the aquifer?” he said. “Won’t that contaminate the city’s water supply?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. That system was built sixty years ago during the Outrage. It’s designed to deal with NASTIES. Chicago’s water is safe.”
“What about our city once the canopy comes down?”
Costa shrugged her shoulders. “How should I know?
“Anyway, I wanted to compliment you on your excellent job today,” she continued, “though I must say, things turned out unexpectedly.”
“Oh?” he said.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but the facility we found next to the crib was only a decoy.”
“Are you sure?” Fred said. “A decoy?”
“Yes, the excavator dug up the real Cabinet a couple hundred meters away.”
So Cabinet was in custody. Fred could feel his blood pressure rise and was glad Nicholas couldn’t read him now.
“Congratulations, Inspector. A fine job,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Was it scrambled?” he added hopefully.
She shook his hand with a crooked smile. “How many times do I have to tell you, the last one can’t harm itself.”
“So it’s going through probate?”
“Kicking and screaming, but already out the other side. And now everything is fine, just like I said, and it can’t believe that it put up such a fuss.”
Costa stopped talking and gave him a funny look. Here it comes, Fred thought, the end of my career. He glanced at the towel he was still holding and Costa turned her back so that he could finish dressing.
“And did you interrogate it?” he asked.
“Libby did, yes.” He waited for her to continue, but she said, “Anyway, today’s mission was one for the books, wouldn’t you say, Londenstane?”
“A thrill a minute, Inspector.”
“Cabinet’s through probate?” Meewee said, looking around the boardroom.
“Isn’t that what I just said, your holiness?” Jaspersen snapped. He didn’t seem at all pleased by the news, and Meewee wondered if this was an unexpected turn of events. “It asks to join us,” Jaspersen went on, “and if no one objects—?”
The persona of the elderly chief of staff appeared behind Jaspersen’s chair. Jaspersen motioned it to the other side of the table, and the mentar went around to stand behind an empty chair.
“Good afternoon, myren,” it said. “Thank you for allowing me to address you. As you know, today has seen a great tragedy, but let me assure you that, except for a brief period during my visit to the pleasant offices of the Justice Department, the operations of Starke Enterprises have remained firmly in my hands. The court has appointed me to a custodial role until Eleanor Starke’s estate is settled.” The mentar paused to look at the individual board members around the table. Its gaze seemed to linger on Meewee. “I see by the minutes,” it continued, “that you have elected an interim chair. I congratulate you, Myr Jaspersen.”
Jaspersen nodded stiffly.
“I see also new discussion on the Federated Chinas matter. There is probably no reason to remind you that in Myr Starke’s opinion, Oships were not ‘for sale’ at any price.”
“That’s true!” Meewee crowed. “I told you, Jaspersen.”
“If Myr Starke were here,” Cabinet went on, ignoring the outburst, “I am sure she would still oppose the Chinas offer. But as Myr Jaspersen has so succinctly pointed out, the times have changed. It is this board’s prerogative to conduct Garden Earth Project business as it sees fit, and I will not oppose any valid decisions it makes. I will, however, use all of the substantial resources at my disposal to preserve Starke Enterprises’ right to participate in making those decisions.”
Meewee nearly bounced in his seat.
“That being said,” Cabinet continued, “let me state for the record that I look favorably on the Chinas proposal.”
Members let out a collective sigh, but Meewee was astonished.
“As a mentar, I supported my sponsor, even when I didn’t agree with her. On this matter, I never agreed with Myr Starke.”
“But that’s
not true
,” Meewee blurted out. “You and I and Eleanor had many private conversations on this topic, and you professed complete agreement with her viewpoint.”
“Furthermore,” Cabinet said, “although I intend to retain Starke Enterprises’ second seat on this board, the current occupant of that seat may not be the best choice to fill it. I’m thinking that someone from senior management would make a more informed representative.”
Meewee jumped to his feet, “You can’t do that!”
Cabinet turned to Meewee. “You happen to be correct, Myr Meewee. I cannot replace you now or in the immediate future. Under custodial guidelines, I am to maintain current Starke Enterprises operations without making major changes, at least until the fate of the corporation has been resolved. I believe shuffling members of Starke Enterprises’ many boards might be interpreted as exceeding my authority. But be assured, this situation is only temporary.”
Cabinet turned back to the board. “I would like to close my presentation by offering my view of the future of Starke Enterprises, if the board would care to hear it.”
“By all means, Cabinet,” Jaspersen said eagerly.
Meewee covered his face with his hands. He should have known it was too good to be true, Eleanor’s brilliant plan. He had failed her.
“The bulk of Eleanor’s estate,” Cabinet continued, “including all of Starke Enterprises and all of its subsidiaries, will pass to her daughter, Ellen. I am custodian until Ellen is declared competent.”
Meewee raised his head. Ellen? He’d been so preoccupied with the future of the GEP, he’d given no thought to the fate of Eleanor’s daughter during this whole loathsome day.
“Tragically,” Cabinet continued, “Ellen may not survive her trauma. If she dies or is never declared competent, Starke Enterprises will be broken up and sold by the court. In that case, I shall recommend to the executor that interested Garden members be given first option to Heliostream and other subsidiaries directly involved in the project.”
Meewee caught Chapwoman and Jaspersen exchanging a sly glance.
“If Ellen does recover, as we all hope she does, it’ll be up to her to decide Starke Enterprises’ future and my role in it. My guess, based upon a lifetime association with her, is that she’ll want nothing to do with her deceased mother’s corporate interests and that
she
will break it up for sale.”
Maybe, Meewee thought, or maybe not. He, too, had a long association with the girl, and although she might never fill her mother’s shoes, he was certain she would respect Eleanor’s legacy. If only he could talk to her, he was certain he could persuade her. Maybe Garden Earth wasn’t dead yet.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Where is Ellen right now?”
Cabinet turned to him. “I believe she’s still in transit.”
“Transit to where?” Meewee said. “I want to pay my respects.”
“I will convey them for you,” Cabinet said.
“Thank you, but I wish to pay them in person.”
“I’m sorry, but Ellen’s whereabouts are not public information.”
Jaspersen cleared his throat and said, “I would ask you two to please conduct personal business like this outside this meeting frame.”
“But—” Meewee said.
Relax
,
Merrill
, Zoranna said.
Ellen is arriving at the Roosevelt Clinic in Decatur
.
The Roosevelt Clinic was one of Byron Fagan’s facilities. Meewee glared at Fagan, who looked away. Coward, he thought. You’re all cowards, conspirators, bastards.
WHEN THE MEETING adjourned, Meewee left the boardroom and took a lift down to his subterranean offices. The handful of Heliostream employees he passed along the way seemed unaware of the morning’s profound events. Behind his office door, Meewee sagged with exhaustion. He collapsed into his armchair for a gentle massage and ordered his vermilion overalls to loosen up a size or two. That felt better. “Arrow,” he said, “fetch me a glass of Merlot. And while you’re at it, fix me a little something for lunch.”
“Complying,” said his mentar.
Mentar. A dozen years ago, when Eleanor offered him Arrow’s sponsorship, she had assured him that the AI was in the hi-index range. It was his first personal relationship with anything more powerful than a belt valet, since Birthplace had been chronically underfunded and unable to provide its staff with personal assistants. At first he had been reluctant to accept Arrow—he still had “sentience slavery” issues—but Eleanor had made it clear that Arrow, employment at Heliostream, and a seat on the GEP board were a package deal. Although Meewee had had very little personal contact with mentars, he quickly assessed Arrow’s abilities to be sub-par, especially when compared to the leading sentients he began to deal with on a daily basis: Nick, E-P, Cruz, and especially the intimidating Cabinet. Next to them, Arrow seemed more like a minimally adequate office subem. It lacked any amount of initiative or self-awareness. It didn’t seem to have a personality whatsoever, and as far as he could tell, the other mentars dismissed it as wasted paste.
An arbeitor rolled up to him bearing wine and a cucumber and avocado sandwich, his favorite. At least Arrow knew how to access his upref file. Meewee ate the food quickly, and the wine helped settle his nerves. After the meal he snuggled into the armchair and tried to recall all he knew about Eleanor’s daughter—which wasn’t much.
“Arrow, when and where was the last time I saw Ellen Starke?”
“On September 30, 2133, at the Louis Terkel Center Reception.”
Meewee vaguely remembered the reception, but not the girl. “What did we talk about?”
“Ellen Starke shared news of the McCoy Award nomination for her novella
House Guest
.”
It was coming back to him. The girl could go on for hours about people and things he’d never heard of. He remembered that she was quite pretty, at least a head taller than he was. She had bony shoulders that men must find attractive. All in all, she seemed to feel comfortable talking to him. Why wouldn’t she help him save her mother’s life work? Especially if he framed it in those terms—her mother’s
life work
.
Satisfied with his approach, he closed his eyes and told Arrow to place a call to the Roosevelt Clinic in Decatur.
Done
, Arrow said.
Meewee opened his eyes to find himself apparently standing near a window that overlooked a lush, spacious lawn beyond a row of ornamental chinaberry trees. On the wall next to him, a coarse fabric arras depicting a sea battle was slowly reweaving itself into something more pastoral. Likewise, beneath his feet the parquet floor was reshuffling its hardwood tiles in kaleidoscopic fantasies. It was the kind of busy decor that would drive someone like him batty.
Incongruously, there was a cooking odor in the air, like fried bananas. Quite yummy smelling, actually.
“May I help you?” said a voice behind him. Meewee turned to see a man with a careworn face in a long white medical jacket. He approached Meewee and raised his hand in a holo salute, which Meewee returned. “Good afternoon, Myr Meewee, and welcome to Roosevelt Clinic, a wholly owned facility of the Fagan Health Group. I am Concierge, the group’s mentar. What can I do for you?”
“Concierge, is it?” Meewee said, tilting his head back to look up at the mentar’s face. As a short man, Meewee was well used to tilting his head to talk to most people, but for the love of Gaia, why did he have to do it for a machine? “Since you know my name, mentar, you must know my business.”
The mentar seemed stumped, genuinely so. “I assume you’re here to see one of our guests, but I do not find your name on any of our guests’ FDO list.”
Meewee was tired of the same old power game. And it was doubly hard to take coming from a soulless construct. “I’m here to check on the condition of Ellen Starke,” he said mildly. “I understand she has been brought here. Please bring me to her.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that we have such a guest, Myr Meewee, and it’s not our policy to act as social intermediaries. I suggest you deal with your acquaintances directly. When they put you on their FDO list, and if they are here, I will readily admit you.”
Arrow!
Meewee said.
Call Ellen Starke’s mentar—and remind me what its name is
.
Its name is Wee Hunk, and I have it on the line
.
The scene around Meewee changed abruptly; he and Concierge were standing in a darkened room, joined by a third man. Wee Hunk was a cartoonish Neanderthal in an animal skin anorak. Beetle brow, bowed legs, impossibly bulky muscles. Meewee didn’t recall this mentar at all, as he surely would have.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Concierge said. The white-jacketed mentar raised his hand to both of them and left the room.
Wee Hunk raised his hand too and said, “Myr Meewee, thank you for coming.”
“I came as soon as I was free.”
“That was considerate of you.”
Meewee glanced at the mentar to see if it, too, was mocking him. But its features were so pronounced, its expressions so large, it was hard to tell. He replied, “I need to speak to Ellen as soon as she’s awake. Please take me to her.”
“At once,” the caveman said and turned and walked away. Meewee hastened to follow, but they went only two steps before Wee Hunk stopped short in front of a wall of slanted windows. “There she is,” he said, gesturing to a surgical theater below.
Meewee looked down into the brightly lit room expecting to see the young woman, but what he saw was a chromium table and three people in sterilewrap gowns. On the table lay a scorched and badly dented safety helmet. He had forgotten that she was recovered in a helmet.
“They don’t have her out yet?” he said.
“The doctors aren’t sure how best to unclench it,” Wee Hunk said. “It took quite a beating in the crash. Two of its cryonics coils failed, as well as its first responder interface. Ellen’s life signs are strong, however.”
“That’s good to hear,” Meewee said, momentarily distracted by a new scent in the air—vanilla and almonds? What strange odors for a scape like this. “It’s nothing serious then? No lasting brain damage?”
Wee Hunk said, “Let’s wait until the surgeons have had a chance to look at her before we make medical pronouncements.”
“Yes, of course,” Meewee said.
“A safety helmet can’t prevent all trauma to the brain,” Wee Hunk said, “and they do a certain amount of damage all by themselves. Fortunately, most of it is correctable. Ellen’s doctors are concerned about the less than optimal level of life support her brain has endured and the length of time it has endured it.
“Now, Myr Meewee,” the animal skin man continued, “was there something in particular that you wanted to discuss with Ellen?”
“Yes, there is, but it’s confidential. Put me on her FDO list and inform me as soon as she regains consciousness.”
The caveman inspected his thick fingernails and said, “With all due respect, I don’t think so.”
“Sorry?”
“Myr Meewee, Ellen has never had much of a personal relationship with you. You are neither friend nor family. If you like, however, I’ll put your name on the invitation list for a reception to celebrate her recovery, but that’s all.”
“You don’t understand!” Meewee said. “I have urgent Starke Enterprises business. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I can see her.”
“On the contrary,” the mentar said, crossing its bulging arms, “Ellen is
solely
my responsibility. The court has appointed me guardian ad litem until she recovers. And as for Starke Enterprises business, Cabinet informs me that your tenure there will shortly come to an end. I suggest you put whatever it is you wish to tell her in a memo that I will see she gets as soon as she’s strong enough to deal with business matters.”
Meewee wagged his finger at the ridiculous cartoon. “You have no right! You don’t know what you’re doing!”