by Allen Steele
“But the Main Brain didn’t…I mean, it wasn’t monitoring what happened when it happened? In real-time, I mean?”
“I cannot answer this question.”
There was a comment Russell made earlier: something about our associates being unable to receive transmissions from the habitat. Information about the hub and the arriving guests had to be downloaded to the MINNs before we boarded the cable car. Something to do with radiation shields. Russ was getting into this, then a headache that shut him up. But why would…?
Holy shit.
No wonder Chip can’t answer the question. If he does, he’s revealing a secret Mister Chicago prefers that we’d never learn.
On the cable cars, and perhaps even within the colony hub itself, the Main Brain can’t communicate with our MINNs, because the shields that protect the habitats from cosmic radiation also block radio signals with our implanted comlinks. Vital information from the Main Brain to the MINN can be downloaded in advance, but the comlink is broken as soon as anyone wearing a MINN leaves a habitat. This was why we were told to don radio headsets before we left the habitat; it was the only way the Main Brain could receive information from us.
This was how I was able to kick Vlad without being punished. The Main Brain hadn’t seen what I had done, and therefore Chip was unable to punish me.
The Main Brain isn’t as omniscient as we’ve been led to believe.
It has a blind spot.
My first impulse is to get the tube off my arm, run upstairs, find Russell and see if my theory matches his observations. I’m about to shout for the doctor when a small voice that doesn’t belong to Chip whispers in my ear.
Shut up, you idiot!
If I peep so much as a word of this to Russ, Shemp, or anyone else, Chip will doubtless hear what I say…and if Chip hears, so will the Main Brain. Warning bells will ring. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as someone once said; if I don’t drop dead or vanish in the middle of the night, then Mister Chicago will make sure that I never get close to one of the cable cars again, at the very least.
In fact, this particular line of inquiry may have already made someone suspicious. Time to change the subject, mucho prompto.
“Hey, Chipster, whatever happened to all the other people…the other sleepers, I mean…the Immortality Partnership owned?”
“Please be more specific.”
“Mister Chicago said that there were four hundred more sleepers on Clarke County, and that only forty of them have been revived by the Pax. Is that right?”
For a moment, I think Chip’s going to spring the I-cannot-answer-that-question line on me again, but he surprises me. “Those figures are incorrect approximations. My information indicates that, at last report, there are four hundred and six neurosuspension patients once registered to the Immortality Partnership on the Clarke County space colony. As of February 13, 2099, thirty-nine have been revived to various states of mental awareness by the Royal University School of Medicine. Three hundred and sixty-seven patients remain in neurosuspension.”
“Uh-huh.” Once again, I realize that I have no real awareness of the passage of time. No pinup calendars, no Mickey Mouse watches; you have to remember to ask your associate what day it is, and I seldom do. Time flies when you’re having fun. “How long ago was that?”
“Eight months ago. Today is November 25, 2099, Gregorian.”
Jeez. Thanksgiving already. That explains all the turkeys who just walked off the Anakuklesis (including the scrawny one with a bad temper). “So how many deadheads—sleepers, I mean—did Mister Chicago bring here? What happened to them?”
“First question: ninety. Second question: fifty-six were revived in various degrees of mental awareness. Of that number, forty-three are actively employed as servants, ten have been annulled due to chronic mental deficiencies, two have been terminated as punishment, and one has committed suicide. Out of the remaining sleepers, twenty are in first-stage revival, and fourteen remain in neurosuspension.”
I whistle under my breath. Of the fifty-six people who woke up in the White Room, Mister Chicago did away with ten because they had come out of neurosuspension as vegetables. George and Veronica were killed by their associates when they went insane, and poor Winston hanged himself. I should consider myself lucky; I’m among the four-fifths majority still alive…and only two-thirds have all our marbles.
“How did Mister Chicago get us here?”
“He had the dewars containing your heads transported to 4442 Garcia aboard the Anakuklesis.”
“No, no, no…I mean, how did he acquire them from the Pax in the first place?”
“The Immortality Partnership declared bankruptcy in 2096 when it was unable to pay taxes levied on it by the Royal Treasury. The treasury took ownership of its capital assets on Clarke County, including one hundred and sixty-five dewars containing four hundred and ninety-six neurosuspension patients. This occurred on—”
“Hold it. Last time I checked, the Immortality Partnership was based in California.”
“On April 6, 2046, Gregorian, the board of directors of the Immortality Partnership voted six-to-three to move its long-term care facilities from Pasadena, California, to Clarke County, once the space colony was completed. This relocation was accomplished between February 10, 2047 and August 13, 2047.”
“Gotcha. Go on.”
“When the company went bankrupt, the Royal Treasury temporarily put its dewars up for public auction. Transitive Starlight, a shipping firm owned by Mister Chicago, placed a winning bid of fifty megalox for thirty of these dewars before the Royal Treasury closed the auction and took possession of the remaining one hundred and thirty-five dewars, which in turn were placed in the stewardship of the Royal University School of Medicine.”
Well, that makes sense…not. Why would anyone in their right mind—if you’ll pardon the expression—pay fifty megalox for ninety decapitated heads frozen in liquid nitrogen? Mister Chicago must have been desperate for good household help. And if he wants to clone more servants, then why has the Pax stopped the auction?
And then there’s the plan he mentioned during his conversation with Vlad…“Why did he buy those dewars, Chip?”
“I’m sorry, Alec, but I cannot tell you this.”
Ah, so. Big Chief Pink Eyes has something up his sleeve. “So what about those heads left in Clarke County? What’s happened to them?”
“The dewars containing the remaining neurosuspension patients have been placed in the custody of the Pax Astra Royal University School of Medicine…”
“You told me that. Go on.”
“The Royal University has attempted to revive thirty-nine of—”
“Old news. Keep going. Where are they located now? Clarke County?”
“The location of the remaining dewars is presently unknown. Latest intelligence reports indicate that they are no longer within the long-term care facility the Immortality Partnership formerly had in Clarke County. However, it is known that the Royal University has been attempting to revive some of its neuropatients, although its success ratio is reported to be much lower than that on 4442 Garcia.”
I don’t know whether to feel blessed or damned. By luck of the draw, my head happened to be within one of the dewars purchased by Mister Chicago; not only that, but I was one of the fortunate few who had come out of neurosuspension with my wits intact. From what little Chip’s able to tell me, the Pax knows less about neurosuspension revival than the Zodiac. On the other hand, my second chance at life is being spent in slavery, with a narc in my head. It’s almost enough to make me envy the dead.
Speaking of the dead…“Some of the deadheads had trust funds established on their behalf. What happened to them?”
“Legal responsibility for bank accounts in the names of neuropatients was taken over by the Pax Astra when the Immortality Partnership became insolvent. It is believed that the Pax Astra Royal Treasury absorbed those funds before they auctioned the dewars.”
“How muc
h was that?”
Another pause. “In Pax Astra currency and at the present rate of exchange, the total was one hundred and twenty-five megalox.”
Well, that explains where everyone’s money went: we got swindled by the Pax. From what I’ve already learned from my history lessons, the Pax has had to pay massive war debts. Guess we paid for a spaceship or two.
Another thought occurs to me. “Say, do you…uh, do you happen to have a list of the sleepers on Clarke County and 4442 Garcia?”
A short pause. “Yes, I can access that file.”
“Okay…see if William Alec Tucker, Jr. is on the list.”
“Is William the first name or the last?”
Persnickety computer. “William is the first name, Alec is…aw, never mind. Try it this way. Tucker, William Alec, Jr.”
Pause. “There is no listing of Tucker, William Alec, Jr. on the list.”
“Okay. Same format…search for Longstreet, Sarah Eads, or Tucker, Sarah Eads.”
Pause. “There are no listings for Longstreet, Sarah Eads, or Tucker, Sarah Eads.”
So Dad hadn’t opted for the shrunken-head treatment, and neither had Mom. No surprise; if either of them had been revived here, I would have known about it by now. Dad would be trying to make deals with Mister Chicago and Mom would be searching for the liquor cabinet. Cold as it may seem, I’m almost glad that they’re still dead. Asking about them had been obligatory, though. There’s another person I want even more than my parents…
“Okay, what about Westphall, Erin Kay?”
Again, a short pause. Then…
“Westphall, Erin Kay is listed as an Immortality Partnership neuropatient in Clarke County.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
* * *
BITTERSWEET
…And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “Annabelle Lee”
As soon as I’m out of the infirmary, I waste no time tracking down Shemp.
I can’t tell him about the MINN blind spot. Maybe that’ll come later, once I figure out how to communicate with him without the Main Brain spying on us. Right now, though, he has to know that Erin isn’t gone forever, that’s she in neurosuspension somewhere in the Pax.
Everyone’s home from work by the time I return to the servants’ quarters. Most are chowing down in the mess room: vegetable soup and fried tofu sandwiches on the menu tonight. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I’m in no mood for food. Shemp’s not here, though, and Sam tells me that he’s already gone back to his room, so I go looking for him.
His door is shut. I almost walk straight in, just like I used to do when we shared an apartment, but I stop myself. Last time I was here was the night I decked him…for no good reason, really, except that he said the wrong thing at the wrong time. It’s probably not a good idea to go barging in.
I knock first. I don’t hear anything, so I bang on the door again. “Hey, Shemp! You in there!”
A moment passes, then I hear his muffled voice: “Who is it?”
Dummy. Who does he think it is? “It’s me…can I come in?”
Another pause. “I’m busy. Go away.”
Shit. He’s still pissed. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened before, but I really gotta talk to you.”
“Can it wait till tomorrow?”
“Naw, man, it’s important. We gotta talk, I swear…”
A few seconds pass, during which I consider the fact that this is my oldest friend by a factor of one hundred and four years plus ten, and that there isn’t a lock on this frigging door.
“Um…dude, I’m really kinda busy right now. Could you, like…?”
Busy, my ass. He’s just being pissy. “Coming in,” I say, then I shove open the door.
And instantly regret it.
Shemp isn’t being a prick, after all. He is busy…and he isn’t doing it on his lonesome, either.
Although I can’t tell who’s sharing Shemp’s bed, the figure beneath the blanket he just yanked up is unmistakably female. Shemp’s red face lies above a tousled mop of light brown hair; if looks could kill, his eyes would have been laser beams.
For as long as I’ve known Christopher Meyer, the guy’s never had much of a sex life. A fat kid with glasses like him isn’t a babe magnet; he seldom dated when we were in high school, and even then it was with girls who were just as homely as he was. The only steady girlfriend he ever had only stuck around for a few months before she ditched him for an asshole jock; it humiliated him and broke his heart. Since then, the rare occasions he got laid were either by seducing a drunk girl he met at some keg party, or an occasional mercy fuck from a friend of a friend (I know, because I once fixed him up with one). Most of the time, he sought relief from the stack of lurid comic books next to his bed and the palm of his right hand; once, while we were stoned silly on several joints, he confessed to me that the fantasy object of his desire was Rogue from the X-Men. Yanking off with funny books is a sure sign of desperation.
I stop in the doorway and stare at him in amazement. This was the first time I’d ever found him in bed with a real, honest-to-God woman. I don’t know what to say, save for the obvious:
“Aw, jeez, man…I’m sorry.”
His head falls back on the pillow. “Think nothing of it,” he sighs. “Would have happened sooner or later.”
“Do you…um…?” I start to step back out the door.
“Is it really important?”
“Umm…yeah, but…”
The head on his shoulder murmurs something in his ear. He listens, then nods. “Naw, don’t worry about it. You can stay. Just shut the door, okay?”
I close the door, then squat down on my haunches as far from the bed as I can. Turnabout is fair play, after all; there were many times when Shemp discovered Erin and me in the sack together. But who’s the young lady Shemp has lured into his quarters?
Another soft murmur from beneath the bedcovers, then a pair of dark brown eyes shyly peep over the blanket. “Come on out,” Shemp says. “Alec’s a big boy…he can handle this.”
“I’m not sure if I can,” she whispers, but then she pulls the blanket down from her chin. “Hi, Alec.”
I feel a brief pang of jealousy when I see who it is. Anna. The first person I made friends with in the White Room, who became distressed when I was led away by John, who tried to comfort me that awful morning when I had my first flashback of Erin…and now she’s taken up with Shemp. I knew he was attracted to her, of course, but she had been so self-involved lately that I thought it unlikely that she would make it with anyone, let alone Shemp.
Only goes to show how much attention I’ve been paying to current events. They must have gotten their affair started while Shemp and I were cold-shouldering one another.
“Hi, Anna,” I say, trying to be casual about the whole thing. “Umm…don’t get up on my account. You both look cozy where you are.”
She blushes, but smiles like the proverbial cat who’s just raided the canary cage. She settles herself against Shemp’s shoulder. Shemp’s trying not to look too smug. Comeuppance on his swinging-dick former housemate. He knows I haven’t gotten laid lately…like, in the last century or so.
“So what’s on your mind?” he asks.
“I found out what happened to Erin.” I take a deep breath, and then go on to tell them what I’ve just learned.
I can’t tell him everything, of course. Just the stuff about the Immortality Partnership and what happened to all the dewars that Mister Chicago didn’t buy from the Pax. Anna remains quiet, but Shemp prods me with questions now and then. When I’m done, he’s silent for a few moments, saying nothing as he gazes at the lumpy shapes at the end of the bed where his feet are twined with Anna’s.
“That’s terrific, man,” he says at last.
“That’s all you’v
e got to say? ‘That’s terrific, man’?”
“What do you want me to say? Three cheers, hip hip hurrah?” Anna burrows her face beneath the blankets again. Shemp shrugs. “I’m not sure what difference it makes.”
I gape at him. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. I mean…I just can’t believe it. I know you really didn’t like her…”
“Yes, I did!” he snaps. Now he’s pissed off. “She was my friend, too! The only thing I didn’t like was that you threw me out of our place so that she could move in, that’s what!”
“Chris…” Anna lays a hand on his chest. “Calm down.”
Shemp lets out his breath. “Okay, all right.” He strokes her hair, gives her a peck on the forehead, then looks at me again. “Look, man…don’t get me wrong. I liked Erin. Maybe I kinda resented her at first, but that’s all in the past. If I thought there was a way she could come back, I’d be happy for you. I really would.”
“But you don’t think she’s coming back?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Hey, we came back, didn’t we?”
“But…” He sighs again, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay, let’s work this out logically.”
He raises a finger. “First, what are the chances that she’ll be revived? Maybe she will, eventually…or maybe she’ll just remain in the dewar for another century.”
He raises another finger. “Second, even if a new body is cloned for her and she’s revived, what are the chances that she’ll still be Erin? I don’t mean to be cruel, but you’ve seen what’s happened to a lot of the other guys who’ve been brought back. Some of ’em can’t even remember their last names…and some of the others are pretty fucked in the head. Do you really want to see Erin that way?”
“I…but she might…”
“But she might not, either.” Anna emerges from the covers again to prop her head up on one arm. “There’s a chance she might not even remember you. She may not remember anything from her past…or even worse. Do you really want to have her back as a vegetable?”
I shake my head, but I’m not giving up yet. “But there have been few of those, and most of the people have come back with at least part of their memories intact. She could be reeducated, just the way we were.”